


Pathless Woods

by onereader



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dating, Don’t copy to another site, Found Family, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Handsome Draco Malfoy, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magical Theory, POV Harry Potter, Puns & Word Play, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Secondary Theme: Pottermore Fair, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Violet Wand, Wand Wood Grower Draco Malfoy, Wandlore (Harry Potter), Wandmaker Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-10-21 08:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20690522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/onereader
Summary: “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods” Lord Byron.Harry finds himself unexpectedly reacquainted with Draco Malfoy when his work as an apprentice wandmaker takes him to Wiltshire. Amongst the trees Harry finds magic, growth, and a man who might finally be proving he’s worthy of the wand that chose him.Hawthorn, Unicorn hair, 10 inches, reasonably pliant.A story of found family, trees with feelings, belief in the power of growth, wandlore, and gratuitous description of Handsome Estate Owner™ Draco Malfoy swanning around in white shirts and leather boots.





	1. Of Wands and Woods

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[107](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#).
> 
> To the hd-fanfair mods - thank you so much for being so welcoming and supportive, I’ve had a ball writing this fic!
> 
> To the prompter for this fic - thank you for the inspiration, I hope I’ve done it justice! ❤️
> 
> To my amazing betas- T & A you know I love you all! Any remaining errors are mine 🙌

Ollivander’s Wand Shop had quietly re-opened on the first of August 1998 with no fuss, no fanfare, and no frills. 

From the cobbled street of Diagon Alley it looked the same as ever. The curved bay windows displayed wands on satin cushions, the interior of the shop was somehow still covered in old dust and spiderwebs even after being freshly rebuilt, and thousands of wands were stacked in boxes from floor to ceiling, ready and waiting to find their owner. 

Eager eleven year olds drifted into the shop in dribs and drabs from sun-up to the close of day for the whole month, with anxious parents hoping to get their child’s wand from the oldest and best craftsman in the country before starting at Hogwarts on September 1st. 

Every summer in the years following, the shop filled up with children ready for their first wand. Throughout the rest of the year the occasional adult witch or wizard came to find a new wand once theirs had broken, or they had simply outgrown it. Lavender Brown had shown up not long after recovering from the injuries Fenrir Greyback had inflicted on her during the Battle of Hogwarts - her new wand accommodating the changes it had wrought in her psyche and her magic.

Harry Potter had arrived at the shop the summer after it had reopened, with his own wand, and no children of his own. Just a nagging certainty that working with wands was his next step after ending a war with the power of love and the loyalty of a singular wand. 

Now he was in his fourth year of an apprenticeship to become a wandmaker in his own right. After serving his time sweeping the floor and dusting the shelves, in the traditional mind-numbing probation of the new apprentice, Harry had spent every day at work learning whatever the eccentric old man would teach him.

His choice to go into the wandmaking business had surprised everyone at first, at least, it had surprised everyone that didn’t _ really _ know him. His own teenage plans to become an Auror also happened to be the assumption of everyone else in the Wizarding world. Defeat a Dark Lord and suddenly everyone reckons you would be the perfect policeman, despite all previous bad press to the contrary. Even Rita Skeeter had touted him as the next big mover and shaker in wizarding law enforcement.

Harry, however, had quietly but resolutely rejected all of the Auror, and Auror-adjacent offers made by the Ministry. 

First he had been sent an official letter extending an obsequious invitation to join the Auror ranks, no need to even complete his NEWTs. Hermione had been the one to Incendio that particular missive, appalled at the ‘lack of proper respect for _ essential _ qualifications’. But the Ministry seemed to take that rejection in their stride, and proceeded to send more letters, grovelling Ministry officials, and even active Aurors in full uniform to try and convince Harry to join the force. Harry soon stopped even answering the door. 

Shacklebolt was the last to make the suggestion, and despite his own elevation to Minister For Magic, he reached out to Harry as an ex-member of the Order. There was a lot of talk about _ legacy _ , and _ justice _ , and _ inspiration _. Harry had explained that he had no intention of continuing into a line of work that was just an official version of the danger he’d lived with since infancy; he also reminded Kingsley that he’d already sort of done his bit for the general safety of wizarding Britain. Of course Shacklebolt had to accept that, he could hardly argue the particulars, and that was the end of any harassment from the Ministry. Friends in high places did serve their purpose, Harry grudgingly accepted. 

What Harry _ didn’t _share with anyone except his closest friends was that after the final battle, after his fleeting visit into Death and back again, Harry’s magic had changed. 

Hermione theorised that it was some kind of magnification effect from his time being Master of Death, even if he didn’t still wield the Elder Wand. Ron usually took the piss about him being a zombie (Harry regretted ever showing him muggle movies) but in his more sober and thoughtful moments, he reckoned that Harry’s magic had become hyper-conditioned to react to danger. 

Whatever the reason, since his return from the Forbidden Forest Harry’s magic had grown, amplified in unpredictable ways. If he tried to cast any kind of offensive magic now, even the simplest of spells came out exponentially more powerful than necessary. An Auror relied on those spells in their daily work. Harry wasn’t willing to risk seriously hurting someone accidentally - permanently Stunning them, or obliterating them with an overpowered Reducto. He certainly wasn’t going to risk worse - the Ministry finding out and trying to take advantage of it. 

One lifetime of fighting was enough for Harry anyway. He’d had quite enough of being a weapon. Some days he was almost glad his magic wasn’t suited to it anymore.

What had brought Harry into Ollivander’s shop that summer was the growing fascination sparked in him in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts. As he waded through the maelstrom of loss and destruction in the days and weeks after, Harry found the beginning of his new passion. He had felt the loss of his own wand keenly, forced to rely on Malfoy’s stolen wand, and when Ollivander had told him that nobody could fix a wand so shattered, he felt like he was grieving another friend.

But after the battle, after every revelation, every intricate twist of loyalties won from wands that led to his success, Harry found the broken remains of his first and most loved wand. The moment he fixed his own broken wand, the wand that had connected him to his magic for the first time right there in Ollivander’s shop, Harry felt that awareness that _ this _ was what he wanted to do.

While it was only the sheer power of the Elder wand that allowed him to repair a wand that should by all rights have been broken forever, that moment of swirling light, of magic settling around him in the air, made Harry wonder about what a life of _ making _ would be like. 

The moment he had been handed his holly and phoenix feather wand had been the happiest day of his life, better even than getting his Hogwarts letter, than being rescued by Hagrid. It was the moment he truly _ believed _ he was a wizard. Every summer since Ollivander had agreed to take him on as an apprentice, Harry had gleefully watched as tiny little witches and wizards anxiously waved wand after wand like so many useless pieces of wood until finally they found _ their _ wand and the magic flowed. 

While he was very much encouraged to watch the little ones get their new wands, it was in the workroom at the back of the shop that Harry spent most of his time. Magically enhanced, its walls stretched to fit heavy lathes and racks of tools, stores of different woods, bottles and boxes of wand cores kept in perfect condition before being used, and work tables for each step of the wand-making process. It smelled of fresh sawdust, the fine oils used to polish finished wands, and the ozone scent of magic in potentia. And it was where Ollivander found Harry, reorganising their stock of unicorn hairs on Monday morning.

“Harry my boy, there you are. How are you getting on with the stores?” Ollivander asked. “Are the shelves behaving themselves, hmm?” 

“Yes, Mr Ollivander, they stopped moving around after a bit of a stern talking to - just like you suggested,” Harry replied with a grimace, eyeing the misbehaving cabinet in question. He still wasn’t _ quite _ used to the foibles of wizarding furniture, even now. “Was there something you wanted me to help you with this morning?”

Ollivander shuffled over to the nearest workbench and sagged down onto a stool, his robes settling around him with a puff of dust. He was ageing, even though Harry knew wizards lived far longer than Muggles, and he was giving Harry more and more responsibilities in the shop. It was sad, but Ollivander’s own children had never shown an interest in the art of wandmaking, and Harry had the suspicion that he was being slowly groomed to be the successor to the business.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got a new job to add to your responsibilities, Harry. As you are making more and more of the wooden wand bases, I think it’s appropriate that you should start making contact personally with our wand wood suppliers.” Ollivander nodded to himself as he talked. “There are some businesses that have changed hands, stopped trading, and new ones too. Over the last few years I haven’t quite kept up with who’s who. I think you can step in to manage that side of things now, yes?” 

“Of course,” Harry said. “I’d like that actually, Mr Ollivander, I’ve been studying the way wand wood is grown recently, how it affects the body of the wand once it’s carved. It would be good to talk to people who actually have hands-on experience with the trees themselves.” He was already thinking ahead to what he could learn, how he could integrate new knowledge into his theories about fresh ways of crafting wands. “Did you want me to start on that today?”

“No rush, Harry, no rush at all. The suppliers ledger is with the others. When you’re ready my boy!”

Harry didn’t mind being called ‘boy’ so much by Ollivander, even though it had been a long time since he actually was one. But the old wandmaker had to be nearing on his first century, and he never patronised. Waffling on about historic friends or drifting into reminiscence about his youth? Yes. But never patronising. Never using the tone of voice his uncle had in Harry’s childhood. 

“Well, I’ll get cracking on it this week anyway - if you won’t be needing me here in the shop, that is.”

“Oh I imagine I can survive a few days without you,” Ollivander huffed as he wandered back to the door leading to the front of the shop. He looked back over his shoulder, a disconcerting twinkle in his eyes, and nodded towards a slip of parchment he had left on Harry’s work-bench. “That’s one of the new suppliers a colleague on the continent recommended to me. I’d like you to take a look and see if they might be worth taking on.”

With that, he disappeared into the main floor of the shop, leaving Harry alone in what he was coming to think of more and more as _ his _ workshop. He grabbed the huge leather-bound ledger Ollivander had pointed out, and dropped it onto the work bench next to the parchment with Ollivander’s looping handwriting scrawled across it.

  


_ Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods _

  


They must have received a bloody good review from whoever Ollivander was in contact with in Europe—the old man was notoriously pernickety about the quality of materials he would use in his wands. He had radically changed the way wands were made when he took over the shop from his own father, reducing the wand cores he approved of to just the big three - unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, and phoenix feather. 

Harry had been developing his own theories about how best to craft the finest and most durable wands, but he knew Ollivander’s methods of _ listening _to the materials to select those with the highest magical resonance was going to be exactly how he would judge the products of all the suppliers. 

As he flipped through the ledger, noting down the relevant suppliers he wanted to visit, Harry decided he would start with the newest name of all - Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods. They wouldn’t know it was his first time being in charge of checking the supply chain, so at least he knew he wasn’t likely to make a fool of himself. He vaguely remembered Malfoy’s family home was in Wiltshire, memories rose of that pale, exhausted face denying he recognised Harry as Bellatrix raged, but Harry wrote it off as he scribbled notes in the margins of the ledger. He hadn’t heard anything about Malfoy since the trials.

After work Harry quickly showered and changed into clothes that weren’t covered in fine sawdust, and then spent a blissful hour pottering in the kitchen preparing dinner. It was his turn in the rota. 

After a year of reeling, recovering, and rebuilding, he and his friends realised that as they moved into adult life they were missing each other. Not just him, Ron, and Hermione. But the wider network of friends that had grown during their time at Hogwarts as students and had only intensified their bonds during the war and in its wake. So they had instituted a regular dinner night, each of them taking turns to host and cook for the rest of the group. Not all of them made it to every dinner, but the commitment to take the time to eat together, like they all did for so many years at the Gryffindor table every night, was something they all relished and enjoyed.

Ron was Harry’s favourite host - his cooking was the perfect combination of his mother and Hogwarts' finest. It was all traditional fare, hearty and warming, seasonal and delicious. His treacle tart was the best Harry had ever eaten, and he regularly fought dirty in vicious elbow-fights with Ginny to get the last slice. 

Ginny, on the other hand, had approximately zero interest in cooking. She usually ordered a take-away for them all, grandly opening a bottle of wine as her one nod towards being a traditional hostess. Hermione always followed recipes to the letter, like she was in the middle of a Potions exam, but she usually got so stressed out in the process that she only picked at her own food when she served up. Those nights, Ron would make her a sandwich while the rest of them piled into dessert, her grateful smile always making Harry’s heart happy that his two best friends had each other.

Luna put on full vegetarian spreads, always experimental, and usually with something muggle - she was a great fan of Twiglets and usually had a bowl of them at every dinner she hosted. Dean never made pudding, insisting that they could all donate something sweet if they wanted. Neville was veggie too, and had mastered the art of the risotto to the point the rest of them never bothered even trying on their nights.

Harry enjoyed the nights he got to cook. Hosting his own friends and cooking for them in his own home was a world away from his childhood of cooking for the Dursleys then having to watch from his cupboard as his own belly rumbled with hunger. 

His interest in cooking had been brought to life under the generous eye of Mrs Weasley. He had stayed at the Burrow for months after the end of the War, while he worked on making Grimmauld Place habitable, and worked on being able to sleep separately from Ron and Hermione. It had started with his own desire to contribute something to the household, resisted strongly by Molly, until she finally let him peel potatoes. From there it wasn’t long until she realised his curiosity and his capability, and soon he was learning her tried-and-tested recipes, then experimenting with his own ideas. 

Grimmauld Place did have a formal dining room, but Harry rarely used it, preferring the relaxed atmosphere of dining in the kitchen where he could cook at the range and still be part of the conversation. He was always reminded of Hogwarts, eating at a long table, surrounded by his friends. It had taken him time to be comfortable in his kitchen, but after redecorating the dark and grimy space it had become one of his favourite rooms in the sprawling townhouse. It was lighter than before with cabinets in a pale English oak, and a new dining table - fresh, and clean, untarnished by decades of grief and war.

Ginny and Luna were first to arrive, fresh off holiday and full of stories about international Quidditch gossip and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks respectively. Just as Harry had furnished them both with glasses of chilled wine, Ron and Hermione called out from the front door as they let themselves in, quickly followed by Neville, then Dean. There were the usual kisses on cheeks, and hugs, and pats on the back before everyone settled down at the table and Harry brought out dishes from the oven amid the chatter of animated conversation.

Everyone fell on their dinner immediately, passing dishes around the table as they loaded up their plates. Harry smiled to himself, pleased as always at the sight of the people he loved best eating food he had made. He followed the flow of conversation between them all, before getting drawn into a debate about the qualities of a good seeker when Ginny brought up the new addition to Sweden’s league-smashing team, the Uppland Lynxes. 

By the time Ron was leaning forward to swipe up the last of the sauce from the roasting dish with his bread, Harry had gotten around to sharing what he’d been up to at work. It was refreshing, and deeply satisfying after his tumultuous childhood, to finally have the quietest life at the table. Still, it was his turn to share his news from the last fortnight, and he was proud to tell them that Ollivander was letting him lead on another element of the business. 

“So I’m going to be taking over the whole supply side of things, basically.” He sipped his wine. “Going to start visiting some of them this week, Ollivander and most of the books suggest getting a hands-on appraisal of the growers’ set-up.”

“Another round of tree-hugging Harry?” Dean teased from across the table, a broad grin lighting up his face. 

“Oh for-” Harry smothered a laugh with his hand over his mouth before gesturing plaintively to the table at large. “That was _ one time! _ And I was drunk - you guys don’t get to hold that against me!”

“Oh we’re not holding it against you Harry,” Ron joined in. “I think you were holding yourself against it, weren’t you? Like it was your pet Crup or something!”

“More of a loving embrace wasn’t it? As far as I remember anyway,” Ginny added, a wicked smirk on her face.

Now the whole bloody lot of them were laughing, though Harry couldn’t help but join them. He had been roaringly drunk last summer and had ended up holding himself up when the world started spinning by, yes, hugging a tree in the garden at the Burrow. His rapidly developing obsession with studying wand woods and the way they were grown had only spurred on his friends' good-natured teasing. 

“Come on you lot, give Harry a break.” Neville broke in with a faux serious look on his face, only the slight quiver in his lips betraying him. “Harry’s a _ professional _ now - he’s not going to start snogging trees right in front of their owners.”

Even Hermione snorted into her glass at that, and Harry had to concede defeat, raising his hands and shaking his head ruefully. 

“You’re right Nev, I’ll just follow your lead and leave all plant loving for my down-time. How is that new Mimbulus Mimbletonia you’ve been coddling?” Harry retorted.

Ginny cackled at that before grabbing the bottle of wine and topping up her glass, batting her free hand at Harry to shut him up.

“Stop it! You can't tease him about any plant fetish stuff until I’ve winkled the name of his new squeeze out of him. Pre-embarrassment will only make it harder for me, dummy.”

That drew Ron and Dean fully on board with her, and successfully distracted from taking the piss out of Harry all three of them began throwing guesses across the table at a silent, stoic-looking Neville. He had grown into himself since the war, his physical stature finally catching up with his particular brand of quiet courage, and he bore their good natured jockeying with a small smile and a glint in his eye. 

Neville had been fully adopted by the press as one of the poster-boys of the great war effort after his epic moment of snake-slaying valour. But the real impact of his late blooming was that fact that he was the most fancied of them all - tall, muscled, and these days sporting a devastating beard and man-bun combo. Witch Weekly kept a quarterly ranking of the ‘Lightning Era Lads’ as they called Harry and his school cohort - Neville was regularly top of the list. Harry couldn’t really blame them. Puberty had hit Neville like the Hogwarts Express, he was fit - plain and simple. 

Neville had done plenty of dating around, after briefly shacking up with Hannah Abbott when he was eighteen before they realised their relationship didn’t have the necessary staying power. But he had kept his newest romance under wraps, the rest of them only knew there _ was _ someone new because Luna had dropped over to his flat unexpectedly, a house plant emergency on her hands, and found him all dressed up and heading out for a date. Luna, of course, thought this was wonderful news and told the rest of them immediately, before Neville could say he wasn't up for sharing yet. 

Now Neville was playing coy and sitting back with a bland expression on his face as the suggestions for who he might be seeing got wilder by the moment. Even Harry winced when Ron screeched out ‘_ Rita Skeeter!’ _ The very idea of anyone romantically involved with that creepy-crawly enough to make his stomach turn.

Hermione scooched her chair closer to Harry’s, leaning in to talk so he could hear her over the growing cacophony across the table.

“So, how are you feeling about the new responsibility? It’s not too stressful is it?” She asked quietly.

Harry smiled, her concern for him settling over him like a warm blanket, and nudged her shoulder with his own.

“Not to worry, Hermione, I feel more excited than anything else. And these days I could probably give you a run for your money with how much studying I’m doing about wand work. Reckon I’ve probably read enough at this point to be ready to get hands-on with this part of the process too.”

“If I had been told in school that you’d end up going for studying into your twenties, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Hermione laughed. “I’m so glad you’ve found this passion though, Harry, I really am.”

“Me too. On both counts. I’m looking forward to getting out of the shop a bit actually, I love working with the wood, but I think meeting the growers will be fun.” He turned to her properly. “Actually, one new business that Garrick suggested caught my eye - for some reason I feel like I should know it but I can’t remember why I would. It’s called Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods. Have you heard of it?”

Hermione frowned, clearly racking her brain, before shrugging.

“No, can’t say I’ve heard of that particular company before. But there are lots of magical shops and places in Wiltshire.” She lowered her voice, taking Harry’s hand in her own, “Malfoy’s family home is in Wiltshire,” she paused, took a breath, “we were there.”

“It did remind me,” Harry replied, giving Hermione’s fingers a gentle squeeze where they wrapped around his own. Mentions of the dark times during the war always made his heart stutter in his chest, but he had gotten better at taking them in his stride. His friends helped. Reminding him of the present, warm, and safe, and full of life. 

“It’s a beautiful place though, Harry, I went down there with Padma last year to take a look at a Free House Elf community that’s been set up.” She grinned. “Lots of trees. Think you’ll like it. Might even find a new arboreal lover!” 

A startled laugh broke out of Harry at that, settling the ache in his chest. He looked around the table, everyone was finished with their dinner and happily chatting, and sat forward in his chair. 

“Anyone for pudding?” he asked.

Ron immediately shot his hand into the air as if Harry was a professor and he was Hermione in first year. Luna’s expression smoothed out into one of beatific pleasure, and Neville started stacking his and Dean’s plates to clear the way for pudding bowls. 

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Harry laughed, squeezing Hermione’s shoulder as he stood and moved over to take the bubbling rhubarb crumble out of the oven. “Don’t worry Ron - I’ve got custard, cream, _ and _ ice cream tonight!”

* * *

  
  


The following morning, happily settled in at the shop with a mug of tea and a ledger full of current and historic suppliers, Harry got to work. Making his way backwards chronologically he cross referenced the business names with the Wizarding Business Floo Book. Half of the older suppliers looked to have gone out of business, others were clearly on the wrong side of the war - Harry could recognise some surnames from the trials. They would hardly be trading from Azkaban. Along with Ollivander’s suggestion of Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods, Harry had tracked down a couple of new traders that he wanted to throw into the mix. 

It took a couple of hours, but he eventually had a reasonable list of suppliers to contact. Ollivander wanted him to make fresh contact with new businesses and to reach out to old suppliers to make sure it still made sense to work with them. Harry drafted out two letters, one for each type of business, and set a Quick Notes Quill to neatly replicating the multiple copies he needed to send off. As it worked he settled in with his tea and some of the extensive collection of notebooks Ollivander had kept throughout his own apprenticeship; Harry studied them as much as he did the published books on the subject. Not all wandmakers held the same beliefs as Ollivander about the way wands choose wizards, or how intuitive the wandmaking process should be. 

Since Harry’s first day as an apprentice, Ollivander had emphasised how essential it was for him to understand the nuance and meaning of each material used in wandmaking, how they interacted with each other, and all of the implications that has for the individual that a wand chooses. Every scribble-filled notebook of Ollivander’s only enhanced Harry’s shared belief that you really _ could _ tell a lot about a witch or wizard by their wand. 

At first Harry had bristled at the knowledge, acutely aware that his own wand was the brother of the one that had chosen Tom Riddle. He had struggled as a teenager with all of the ways Harry could see he was similar to the boy Voldemort had once been. Knowing he had carried a rotten kernel of the bastard’s soul within him for seventeen years certainly hadn’t helped with his own perception of self. What did it say about him that that wand had chosen him? Ollivander had quickly nipped that in the bud when he mentioned it in the early days of his apprenticeship, gently directing Harry to books filled with the magical theory of wand woods and cores, to the facts of his wand rather than the myths built around it in his own short lifetime. 

The flutter of parchment piling itself up at his elbow drew Harry from his reading, the letters all neatly written. All Harry had to do was stamp each of them with Ollivander’s seal, complete with shop logo and his signature, before rolling them up and stacking them in the outgoing post box to be picked up by the two owls kept at the shop. 

By the end of the week Harry had as many replies as he was probably ever going to get. He sifted through them idly, ranking them by location and level of detail in response to the questions from his initial letter. His favourite by far was the letter from Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods; it had the most thorough description of the woods available, the quality of the land the trees grew on, and the magical heritage of the area. Some of the woods they offered simply weren’t available from any of the other suppliers he had contacted, not of sufficient quality to satisfy Ollivander anyway. 

Something about the heavy cream parchment, the loving description of the trees the supplier owned, the shimmering silver logo at the head of the letter, all combined to fill Harry with a confidence that this grower would have wood perfect for wandmaking. Leaving the other letters for later, he immediately set to writing back to organise a visit the following week, already eager to see if his imagination was going to match the reality of the trees. 

That night, at home, Harry settled onto his sofa with a comforting bowl of delicately scented dhal and rice, and a small mountain of books. They were mostly borrowed from Ollivander’s personal collection, along with some on long-term loan from Hogwarts (and hadn’t _ that _ been quite the battle with Madam Prince), and even a couple that Hermione had sourced for him. Apparently she was quite willing to go the extra mile to encourage Harry’s late blossoming into studiousness, tapping into some kind of book collectors’ mafia to find rare editions of treatise on wandlore every now and again.

He let the book propped on his knees flap shut and stared out of the window as the sky darkened into late evening. Thinking, as he always seemed to these days, about wands. He spent his days creating new wands, but what he was really interested in, what had sparked his initial interest, had been the wands he had used in his own life. The wands that his friends, and family, and enemies used. 

So much of the war that had defined his entire life had rested upon the clashes between wands, his own survival and victory carried by the loyalty of a wand won twice over from one side of the war to another. His time in the Forest of Dean supported by Hermione’s borrowed wand. Even Draco Malfoy’s wand had played its part in Harry’s survival, serving him well enough in the wake of the escape from Malfoy Manor and Bellatrix Lestrange’s rabid sadism that he made it to the Forbidden Forest at the appointed time. 

Sometimes Harry wondered what it meant that he was someone who had used so many wands so successfully. He knew that sometimes within families people could use each other’s wands in a pinch, but that magic never flowed so easily as it did with your own. Neville was a classic example of a child held back by the use of a family wand, only fully coming into his own power once he had his own. Now that Harry was learning more about the way the magic integral to wand woods and cores interacted with the personality, the very _ soul _ of the person wielding them, he realised quite how unusual his use of multiple wands had been. 

For some time now he had been thinking that perhaps Ollivander was more accurate than even he realised when he said that wands choose their wizards. As far as Harry could tell from his own experience, a wand didn't just make that choice once. He couldn’t help but wonder if the wands he had used in that terrible time had somehow _ known _that he needed them to work for him, that they somehow sensed the task he was trying to achieve and lent their loyalty to him for the time he held them. 

* * *

  
  


As soon as he stepped into the work-room on Monday morning Harry made a bee-line for the postbox, excitement rushing through him at the sight of a roll of parchment closed with the silver seal he recognised from the last letter from Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods. A reply, already! 

He tore open the letter and skimmed through polite greetings and enquiries after the shop until he found what he had been hoping for, an official invitation to tour the business. The owner promised to let Harry take a look at every step of the process, from seeing the trees growing in situ, to the workshop where every piece of wood was processed. A Floo address was neatly printed at the bottom of the letter, and Harry grinned to himself as he thought about getting hands-on with yet another aspect of the wandmaking process.

Harry kept himself busy in the shop, replying to letters from other suppliers and arranging visits to them, holding back from counting down to his first field trip on Wednesday to Wiltshire. His giddy energy resulted in Ollivander tutting to himself as Harry threw dusting charms around the shop and rearranged their stock of wand cores yet again.

* * *

  
  


Tuesday evening found Harry lounging on the soft rug in front of the fireplace in the cosy living room he used most often, Hermione’s head bobbing in the green glow of the flames. They had taken to using the Floo almost like a telephone, inspired by Sirius’ visit to the Gryffindor fireplace in fourth year. They still hadn’t managed to make a Muggle telephone work in Grimmauld Place so when they both wanted a chat it was Floo powder they reached for. Ron preferred to just visit in person, he didn’t really understand the way Harry and Hermione like to each stay in their own homes but have a conversation together. 

“So,” Hermione enquired. “First visit out to a grower tomorrow isn’t it? Looking forward to it?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, still not sure the name of whoever they’ll have showing me around though. I haven’t quite mentioned that it’ll be Harry Potter coming to inspect their tree farm, can’t really be bothered with all the gushing through letters - would prefer to get it over with on the day in person, so that might be a bit awkward, but other than that I’m excited actually.”

“Honestly Harry, you haven’t even signed the letters yourself?” Hermione hesitated, pursing her lips and frowning slightly at him. “Maybe just keep an eye out when you arrive, I know things are settled these days but you never know when a rabid fan might do something silly.” At Harry’s arched eyebrow and questioning head tilt she shrugged, her wild curls bobbing around her with the movement. “I know it sounds a bit paranoid, I just worry.” She looked over her shoulder behind her, obviously listening to something beyond what Harry could hear through the Floo. Turning back to Harry, she had a smile on her face. “Ron says to just throw up a _ Protego _ if they try any ‘funny business’. He reckons you’d probably blow them out the door with it if you tried hard enough.”

“I might appreciate some funny business actually, it’s been a while.” Harry winked at Hermione as she cackled.

“Well, guess who’s been seen out and about with his own source of all that?” Hermione asked, a grin stretching across her face. At Harry’s questioning expression she continued. “Neville brought _ Blaise Zabini _ to Ginny’s match last night! Luna told me today when she came into the office to take pictures for the Quibbler.”

None of them ever paid any notice to the articles the Daily Prophet printed about them all, but gossip amongst their tight group of friends was absolutely fair game. Luna was _ always _ the one with the best details, she just had the knack of being in the right place at the right time to get all the juicy news before the rest of them.

“Bloody hell.” Harry rubbed at his stubble, musing over this new development. “Well. He must be pretty serious on him to bring him to a game. Never mind the papers, Neville knows we’d be all over this. Think we should invite Zabini to the next pub night?”

“That’s the best bit, Luna already has.” Hermione confided in a conspiratorial whisper. “Apparently Zabini seemed surprised she’d offer, but Neville was all ‘rugged and reassuring’ according to her.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh with her, delighted that Neville had found someone he obviously wanted something real with, enough to introduce him to his friends, to expose their relationship to the press with a public event like the Quidditch game. 

He and Hermione continued talking until a huge yawn broke out of him.

“Let’s call it a night Harry, you’ll need a good night’s sleep if you’re going to be traipsing around Wiltshire tomorrow. You want to make a good impression if this supplier turns out to be as brilliant as you’ve made them out to be.” Hermione cautioned. “Let me know how it all goes, and remember to be a little bit careful— if you can.”

“Of course, I’ll send you a note or something when I get back.” Harry knew the smile on his face was fond. Hermione’s concern for him always reminded him of their days at school together. “Tell Ron I’ll Apparate right into his office if I end up falling into some kind of tree-themed trap.”

  



	2. Of Sunlight and Deep Earth

Harry checked the letter of invitation one last time and felt for his wand briefly, a long-standing habit since Moody’s famous  _ constant vigilance  _ had been ingrained into him; not to mention Hermione’s warning to look out for himself ringing in his ears. Satisfied everything was in order, he turned to his fireplace and threw a handful of Floo powder into the grate. As bright green flames licked up, he stepped into the fire and called out the address. 

He still hadn’t quite got the hang of a graceful exit from a fireplace, so as he dusted himself off and looked around the large room he found himself in, Harry was glad to see he was alone for now. The Floo address had clearly brought him into a workshop, and Harry was quietly relieved that he hadn’t tumbled into some posh office in his outdoor clothes and leather boots.

There were great stacks of wood in various stages of preparation; whole branches with their bark still on, long planks of sawn timber, crates half-packed with shorter batons of wood nestled in straw ready to be sent off to a waiting wandmaker. Everything was orderly and neat, the flagstone floor cleanly swept, and the tools hanging from hooks were pristine. The simple stone fireplace he had stumbled through was big enough that you could definitely fit the big wooden delivery crates through it— it must have been set up with a Floo haulage license. 

Harry was already pleased with what he found. Whoever owned this business ran a tight ship, and the faint hum of magic he could feel radiating from the neat piles of wood had him in high hopes for the potential wands he could make from them. Ollivander had already warned him off any suppliers who mixed the woods up before transport, or who ‘didn’t properly respect the life of the tree’. Just seeing the workshop before him, Harry already felt confident that this supplier must hold his magical trees in high regard.

Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods had been recommended by a friend of Ollivander’s, a wand-maker in France. Standing in the spacious workshop, surrounded by beautiful timber, Harry couldn’t help but wonder why the business had made contacts in Europe before anywhere in Britain. It seemed a bit back to front. But it  _ did _ mean that Harry could potentially get exclusive rights to the wood as a British wandmaker. As he stroked his fingers down one freshly sawn length of timber and eyed the beautiful grain of the wood, he was sure he wanted to snag this supplier for Ollivander’s.

Just as he began to imagine the different wand shapes he could reveal from the figure of the wood, his mind spinning with ideas, the door to the workshop banged open and he turned with a start. 

Surprise warred with outrage when the head of white blonde hair and piercing grey eyes registered in quick succession— it was Draco bloody Malfoy. He might have a summer tan instead of his old pallor, and he might be wearing a loose white shirt instead of the all-black-everything he used to sport. But Harry could hardly see beyond his own school memories which seemed to superimpose themselves over the man in front of him.

No wonder the letters were simply signed with his job title and the business name. No wonder Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods was only supplying wand makers outside of Britain. If it was owned by Malfoy then he would surely have found it hard to make  _ any _ reputable business contacts in his home country.

“Ah- there you are. I-” Malfoy gestured helplessly. “I apologise I wasn’t here for your arrival, Potter, but I can see you’ve found the latest crop for yourself anyway.”

Harry bristled at the implied overstep. Trust Malfoy to act as if Harry had no place checking out his operation. For all he knew, Malfoy might have set all of this up as some kind of trap for him. Hermione had warned him in case of rabid fans—neither of them had thought it might be worse than that. 

“I don’t really care if you’re late, Malfoy.” Harry shrugged, frowning at him where he still stood just inside the arched stone doorway. “I  _ do _ care that you bloody lied in the letters though. Why wouldn’t you just sign with your name? Thought I wouldn’t show up for you to do...whatever it is you’ve got planned out here?”

“What I’ve got-?” Malfoy visibly gritted his teeth before continuing. “No, Potter. What in Merlin’s name do you  _ think _ is the reason? You wouldn't have bloody come if you knew it was me. For all your lot’s talk about lack of prejudice, it never seems to apply to people like  _ me _ .” There were little spots of colour high on Malfoy’s cheekbones, a sure sign he was feeling righteously angry—Harry recognised it from Hogwarts. “Anyway. I didn’t sign with my name because actually  _ you _ sent the first letter and simply signed it with Ollivander’s shop stamp.”

Harry was half surprised that Malfoy didn't end that little diatribe with a stamp of his feet. Regretfully, he remembered that he was currently on work time and representing Ollivander’s interests, not just his own leftover schoolboy antagonisms. He knew Malfoy had kept his nose clean since the end of the war, and his timely desertion of the Death Eater ranks. 

Despite himself, Harry was interested in what kind of person Malfoy had turned into. He still felt a fragment of that fascination left over from his school years. Even if Malfoy did still show signs of petulance and superiority, he hadn’t thrown any slurs yet, or any hexes. Harry could also admit, if only to himself, that Malfoy was right on both counts, too.

“At least come to The Copse, Potter, and judge the trees for themselves. They deserve more than being written off simply for growing on my land.” Malfoy’s tone was almost pleading. Almost. He never quite lost that sharp tone of demand, a lifetime of being a spoilt only child still lingering in his inflection.

Harry schooled his face into something more professional than the scowl he knew was currently creasing his brow, and raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender. Malfoy might still be a self-serving git, trying to recover the lost greatness of the family name, but he clearly wasn’t planning anything stupid. It would hardly get him in the public’s good books to kill off ‘The Man Who Lived Twice’ at this stage of the game.

“Fine, Malfoy. Fine.” He gestured to the open door behind Malfoy. “Lead the way then, I suppose.”

Malfoy paused for a moment, his head tilted to the side as if trying to see if Harry really meant it or not, or if maybe he’d hex him as soon as his back was turned. Whatever he saw on Harry’s face must have satisfied him though, because then with a short nod he spun on his heel and marched out of the door.

Harry sighed heavily, fleetingly wondering if he could just jump back through the Floo, pretend Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods didn’t exist, and never have to deal with the complicated history between him and Malfoy for the rest of time. But after only a moment’s indulgence he squared his shoulders and followed Malfoy onto the rolling green lawns that lay outside.

Harry felt better as soon as he was outside. It was an early summer morning and the heat of the day was already rising, but a cool breeze flowed down from the dark mass of trees ahead of them. It was a perfect day for flying, blue skies and sunshine, and not for the first time Harry inwardly lamented that living in London meant there weren’t many opportunities to just spontaneously head out on his broom. Malfoy’s enormous family home was set in what looked like acres and acres of land in the middle of the countryside, though. He could probably fly anytime he wanted. Git.

Malfoy had implored him to come and see the ‘copse’, but as they passed into a path mown in a wildflower meadow Harry had to roll his eyes in disbelief at Malfoy’s faux modesty. Malfoy was leading him directly to a full blown bloody forest. If even a handful of the mature trees in the mass of dark green ahead of them were magical, then Harry would have to swallow his pride and do business with Malfoy. 

There was a reason wand woods were hard to come by. Circumstances had to be perfect for them to grow, and often a copse of trees might hold only one or two magical trees old enough to give their wood for wandmaking. And just because one tree was magical didn't mean its progeny would be. Harry had been researching the nature of the trees they used to make wands at Ollivanders, and he couldn't help but imagine them being almost like witches and wizards themselves - sometimes Muggle families having magical children, sometimes magical families having Squib children. Magical individuals were the minority in any population - human or arboreal.

With the sun on his back and the breeze in his hair, Harry eyed the man in front of him as he led the way to the trees. Malfoy had changed since the last time he’d seen him. Obviously they were both older. But Malfoy had lost both the pinched look of arrogance he carried as a child, and the haunted gaze he’d developed the war. 

The last time Harry had seen him had been in the halls of the Wizengamot, wearing the threadbare grey robes of a prisoner, sitting in the stand as the accused. 

Harry had been there to speak, first for Narcissa, and then for Draco. But his testimony hadn’t ended up being necessary. Dumbledore, the arch-chess player that he was, had planned for almost every eventuality - up to and including the aftermath of his own death. A posthumous letter had been released to the Ministry of Magic explaining the actions of both Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy. With Dumbledore’s seal of approval, the Wizengamot voted almost unanimously to throw out the case against Malfoy on account of his age, and the overwhelming duress he had been under. 

At the time, Harry had been at turns furious that Dumbledore would have put that much effort and thought into Malfoy’s future—Malfoy, who had let the monsters into the halls of Hogwarts—and deeply relieved. Relieved that Malfoy wouldn’t be sentenced to Azkaban or worse, relieved that he wouldn't have to spill the details of those strangely intimate moments from the war. Voyeurship and cowardice—or was it courage—in the Astronomy Tower. Feigned ignorance and astonishment in the Manor. Eviscerations in bathrooms and fiery, flying rescues. Harry’s stomach twisted in his belly at the memories. Hardly your standard schoolboy rivalry.

Dragging himself out of those recollections, Harry focused again on Malfoy. There, in the present; striding through the grass as they neared the shade cast by the canopy of leaves before them, not clinging to Harry’s waist as he flew away from heat like dragon’s breath. 

Malfoy’s white blonde hair shone in the sunlight, loose and gently curling where it was tucked behind his ears, nothing like the slimy slicked-back style of his childhood. Tall, too, taller than Harry remembered. The crisp white shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows highlighted broad shoulders and surprisingly muscled forearms. Stubble along his jaw glinted, highlighting the mature angles of his face while simultaneously softening them.

Maybe Harry should try focusing on the trees, because clearly both memories and Malfoy himself needed to be out of bounds right now; both more distracting than Harry could have possibly expected. 

It was surprising easy to look away though, as Malfoy slowed in front of him when they reached the treeline and Harry got his first proper look at the forest before them. The air was cooler in the shade of the trees, their leaves casting protection from the sun. But it was miles from the menacing chill of the Forbidden Forest on a dark night. This was peaceful and welcoming -- it felt like generosity on a hot day, an invitation rather than a warning. 

Malfoy broke Harry’s excited peering into the trees, stepping into his eye line with a serious expression on his face.

“Before we go in, Potter, there are some ground rules I need you to accept.”

“What, no hexing?” Harry retorted. He immediately regretted his brief return to childish taunting at the look on Malfoy’s face; disappointed. Resigned.

“No. Well.” Malfoy grimaced. “Obviously I was hoping that went without saying these days. But if it doesn't? Then yes, I’d appreciate not getting cursed when I’m not looking.”

Harry winced inwardly; annoyed at his slip in professionalism, annoyed with himself for letting Malfoy get the moral high ground again, annoyed that Malfoy’s response made him think of secret curses from second-hand Potions books. But he held his tongue and listened patiently as Malfoy continued.

“But what I actually mean, is that there are rules for anyone that wants to come into The Copse. To be around the trees.”

Harry couldn’t help the scoff that broke out of him at that.

“Could you stop calling it a copse, Malfoy? I don’t know if you’re trying to pretend you aren’t as privileged as you are, or if you’re genuinely just being a git, but that-” he pointed wildly at the vast swathe of trees they were about to enter. “That’s a bloody  _ forest _ Malfoy. Not a copse!”

He expected a sharp retort, maybe an insult, but again Harry could just see the telltale flicker of a muscle in Malfoy’s jaw. He was gritting his teeth instead of lashing out. Harry was almost disappointed. 

“I know you’re the wand expert now Potter, but I think I know my own home, thank you very much. I’m neither modest nor a bloody idiot. It’s called The Copse because when my family first built here,  _ it was one. _ The name stuck,” Malfoy snapped.

Harry forgot sometimes, how much history families like the Malfoys carried with them. He knew, technically, that he had his own family history stretching back generations. The piles of Galleons in his vault at Gringotts spoke to that, royalties from potion inventions, legacies from Potter and Black forebears trailing back through time. 

But the tattered threads of his family tree that had been left behind in his nursery by Voldemort’s malice and violence meant Harry hadn’t grown up with any of it. He’d had no chance of learning that family history, of knowing it as intimately as he knew his own face in the mirror. So he forgot, sometimes, that other people might have that fabric woven into every part of their lives, like Malfoy obviously did.

Malfoy dragged a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. Platinum waves fell loosely around his face in its wake as he pinched at the bridge of his nose. One pale strand caught on an eyelash at the corner of his eye, drawing Harry’s attention like a Snitch.

“Now, would you like to argue semantics on how my family name their gardens, or would you like to actually look at the trees?” He asked.

“No- I mean yes. Yes, I'd like to see the trees. Sorry. What are the rules?” Harry could have kicked himself for stammering like a fourth year, once again hauling in his wandering mind to the real focus of this visit.

Malfoy looked slightly mollified by Harry’s apology, but he still sighed before explaining.

“The trees don’t like any spells remotely fire-based, not even Lumos during the day usually. Don’t take anything without permission, and before you start-” He held up his hand as if to stall Harry before he could interrupt. “I mean without permission from the trees, not me. Do your best not to damage any of the trees, or the plants. If I think you’re going to do anything like that on purpose, I  _ will _ ask you to leave. And if you see the Bowtruckles just give them plenty of space and don’t wave your wand at them. They don’t like that, and if you annoy them it’ll just set the trees against you too.”

Harry wanted to bristle at the implication he’d deliberately vandalise the trees, but he could already feel the faintest hum of magic beneath his feet, rippling out from the deepest roots. These woods were undoubtedly magical. If he pushed Malfoy any further he might get booted off the property before he could do any deals, so he swallowed down his indignance, managed a faint smile and nodded in acquiescence.

“All sounds reasonable, Malfoy. Consider me a rule-abiding visitor.”

He got a disbelieving expression in return, though no sly digs, so he figured he had passed muster. As strange as it was, Harry felt his curiosity overwhelming his instinctual antagonism to Malfoy. And this time, it wasn’t suspicion making his brain tick over with questions.

Malfoy’s clear defensiveness of the trees piqued Harry’s interest, because it wasn't the arrogant princeling type of bluster that he had so shamelessly flaunted during their school days. He didn’t seem to be trying to lord it over Harry that he had such a thing as a forest on his huge estate, never mind a magical one. It was more like...he was protective of the trees. Like he thought it was  _ Harry _ who might be coming into this scenario with ill intentions.

No matter what Harry’s feelings might be towards Malfoy, they were absolutely not going to interfere with the job he was here to do. The chance he was getting. Whether it was the remnants of frustration and suspicion he carried from their school days, or the slightly alarming new fascination with how Malfoy’s shoulders rolled as he walked, or the way his tan made his light eyes stand out. Harry could keep it together, stay professional, and hopefully manage to get exclusive rights to the magical wood for Ollivander’s Wand Shop.

While Harry reined in his wandering mind, Malfoy had led him properly into the forest. That calming blanket of cool quietude had slipped over both of them and brought their bickering conversation to a standstill. They were walking past younger trees right now, but as Harry peered into the light-dappled path before them, he saw more mature growth ahead. Oaks, ash, beech, and elm were all growing healthy and vigorous within his sight. 

As Harry looked up into the canopy, he spotted tiny green and brown creatures milling around the higher limbs of the trees, looking almost like stick insects from a distance. Their faint chattering noises drew Malfoy’s attention upward too, and Harry caught a small smile on his face as he turned to talk to him.

“Ah, there they are, the Bowtruckles have already noticed you.” Malfoy raised a shoulder in a self-deprecating shrug. “They’ve gotten so used to me that they don’t make much fuss when I'm in here. You’re the first non-family member that’s visited this part of the garden for... some time.”

Harry had read all about these little tree-dwelling creatures in his research, along with vaguely remembering Hagrid making references to them in his school days. But this was his first time seeing them in person, and he couldn’t help but grin. He had lived in the magical world for half his life now, but it still struck him with joy sometimes when he saw something new— something so clearly fantastic, but real. 

A few of the Bowtruckles, no taller than the breadth of his hand, were climbing lower down the tree trunk to get a better look. They really did look just like twigs on closer inspection, flat little faces with large brown eyes peering curiously at him. Long thorn-like claws on the ends of their fingers made him grateful for Malfoy’s warning to give them a wide berth.

“I’ve never seen a Bowtruckle before, outside of a book. They’re sort of cute, aren't they?” Harry murmured, not wanting to disturb the creatures. “I didn’t think to bring any woodlice for them, didn’t expect to see any, actually.”

“Trust you to immediately develop a soft spot for them.” Draco snorted. “Believe me, they get plenty of treats from me, the little devils. Though if you do decide you like the quality of the wood here, I would recommend you bring something for the Bowtruckles, it will definitely get the trees on side for when you ask for them to give you some of their branches.”

Harry couldn’t quite reconcile himself to the idea of Draco Malfoy gadding about in a forest feeding tiny green stick-men their favourite insects like some kind of Disney princess. But then again, one very adventurous Bowtruckle was currently dangling from a low-hanging branch in what appeared to be a determined effort to land on Malfoy’s shoulder, an adoring look in its shiny brown eyes. 

Harry turned away to look at the rest of the trees around them, hiding his treacherous smile from Malfoy as he went. As he walked across loamy soil to reach out and touch his fingertips to a great oak, the faint hum of magic became a throbbing beneath his feet, coursing under his hand against the bark. His sensitivity to magic had been heightened since he woke in the Forbidden Forest all those years ago, but this level of awareness was new, even to him. 

His surprise must have been evident somehow, because he heard muffled footsteps as Malfoy moved up behind him. 

“Strong, isn't it?” 

Malfoy’s voice was pitched low, almost a whisper. It seemed to suit the atmosphere of the forest, cathedral-like with its soaring buttresses of trunks, the stained glass of the sunlight through green leaves, the sense of reverence Harry felt as he moved around in the quietude of nature. 

“It’s unusual, you probably won’t have been in many places where this happens if you’ve mostly stayed in London. But that feeling, that vibration? It’s ley lines that run underneath the earth, two intersect below the land here that the trees grow on. So the trees take up that deep earth magic in their roots.”

Harry closed his eyes as Malfoy explained, pressing the palm of his hand into the bark, feeling the rush of that very magic against his skin. It was as though he could almost  _ hear _ the way it rose from the tree’s roots in its sap, rising ever higher to the very crown of the tree. It was beautiful. It felt just like when his own magic moved through his wand, only magnified, exponentially.

“Some people are more sensitive to the movement of magic, can really  _ feel _ it. It’s why people built stone circles around here, a thousand years ago and more.” Malfoy’s voice was almost hypnotic as he continued, its cadence keeping time with the waves of magic Harry could feel around him. “Back then even Muggles could sense the power of ley lines, that’s why they put Stonehenge there. Nowadays even some Wixfolk can’t tell if a piece of wood has magic in its veins, but anyone could feel it here, I think. It’s so much stronger than almost anywhere I’ve been.” 

“I can feel it.” Harry murmured. “In the tree, and under the ground.”

He blinked his eyes open, trailing his fingers down the trunk of the oak in regretful farewell, and turned to look at Malfoy. Harry was disconcerted to find him already watching him, an inquisitive look on his face, as though he had just noticed a puzzle and was already trying to work it out.

“What? Should I not have touched the tree?” Harry asked.

“Hm? No, not at all, you’re welcome to check on them.” The calculating look in his grey eyes sharpened. “I just get the impression that you could probably tell there was magic in the earth here long before you even touched a finger to that tree, couldn’t you?”

That was most definitely  _ not _ something Harry had wanted Malfoy to notice. He definitely didn’t want him making any further deductions about what that kind of magical sensitivity might mean, or how Harry had developed such heightened awareness. It was a can of worms he was reluctant to share much, even with his friends, and Malfoy absolutely wasn’t on that list to begin with. Desperate to change the subject, lest Malfoy somehow guess that it had something to do with Harry’s time being… well, dead, Harry cast about for any non-awkward way of doing so, and failed.

“Erm. Well you said it was strong here, didn’t you? Must be that.” Harry soldiered on despite the sceptical look on Malfoy’s face. “So. Stonehenge is near here is it? I didn’t know that. Learned about it in primary school, before Hogwarts. Funny to think Muggles might have been the ones to teach me my first magic-related knowledge.”

There. A reference to his Muggle upbringing. That was sure to throw Malfoy off. At the very least it would be a reminder of Harry’s sometimes embarrassing lack of knowledge about the magical world. Surely Malfoy couldn’t help picking up that little flaw and running with it?

“It’s an hour or so away.” Malfoy seemed to take the bait. “But, we have a smaller stone circle here on the estate, too.”

“Seriously?” Harry asked, bewildered.

He couldn’t help it. He could feel his mouth dropping open but literally couldn’t help it. A bloody great forest, a frankly enormous house, and a stone circle too? How rich were the Malfoys, really? No  _ wonder _ Malfoy had been such a pain-in-the-arse eleven year old. He’d be hard pressed not to, growing up and thinking that  _ this _ was normal.

Malfoy had the good grace to look slightly sheepish at the admission. 

“Well, yes. It is small. But it’s further into the forest, there’s a lovely clearing and they placed the stones right above that convergence of ley lines I mentioned. It was actually raised by Muggles and Wizards together, about nine hundred years ago.” 

“Bloody hell.” Harry couldn’t help a raised eyebrow in response to  _ that _ little nugget of Malfoy history. They couldn’t have been Muggle hating blood supremacists forever then.

A wry smile crossed Malfoy’s face, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement of Harry’s unspoken response.

“Well, quite. I didn’t actually know that myself until relatively recently. After the war I found myself with time on my hands, and personal reflection can only last so long before you start to get stupid with it. So I looked at the family history.” He shrugged, a small smile on his face as he recounted his research. “Turns out that if you look further back than the generations my father found acceptable, the Malfoy family had lots to do with the local Muggle community through the centuries. I think I was probably as surprised as you are.”

“I bet you were,” Harry couldn’t help but blurt, shocked when that prompted a bark of laughter from Malfoy.

“That’s fair. Though I think my Mother was even more shocked, if I’m honest. I’m sure you know what the Blacks were like?” 

“Merlin. Yeah. I got to know your Great Aunt Walburga via portrait for a few years.” He grimaced at the memory of her screeching abuse. “Reckon she might have blasted  _ herself  _ of the tapestry if she’d had any idea there was Muggle-Wizard co-operation in  _ her  _ family history.”

Malfoy winced at the mention of his relation. Clearly he’d met her at some point. Only someone who had heard her vitriol in person could know how much commiseration was necessary. 

“I met her once, as a child, before she died. Can’t say it would have been much of a loss if she had blasted herself off the family tree really. And she’d have had reason, too.” Another smile softened that angular face as he continued. “Seems like there used to be far more integration between the old wizarding families and the Muggles than I had realised.”

Malfoy gestured over his shoulder at the elm tree, Bowtruckles still skittering about on it’s branches, watching the two wizards visiting their forest. 

“The local farmers around here, across the whole county really, still wassail every Winter Solstice. On some level, I suppose the Muggles still remember that Bowtruckles and other magical creatures appreciate the food in the depths of winter. They understand that the trees need nurture. Even if they don’t really know _ why _ .” Malfoy explained.

“Sounds like the sort of thing we should have been taught in History of Magic, doesn’t it?” Harry suggested. “Might have saved us all a lot of bother.”

“That’s a bloody understatement!” Draco laughed, before his expression suddenly sobered. He glanced for a moment down at his own arm, before carrying on. “Probably would have been, if we hadn’t had a ghost as a teacher.”

Harry was shocked they had been having such easy conversation. Shocked that he found himself smiling along with Malfoy as he described a long past time of peace and understanding between Muggles and Wizards. Most of all, he was shocked to realise that he hadn’t even noticed the way the scar left by the Dark Mark was exposed by Malfoy’s rolled up sleeves before now. 

The look on Malfoy’s face made Harry want to bring back the lighthearted flow of their discussion. He wanted to see more trees, learn more about the way this deep earth magic worked. He wanted to hear Malfoy talk about a Wizarding past that wasn’t simply littered with uprisings of darkness and prejudice, a history beyond war.

“I like the idea that the Muggles still do something for the magical creatures around here, even if they don’t realise it,” he offered. “I wonder if there’s any other traditions they have that come from us. I should ask Hermione.”

Malfoy looked back at him from where he had been studiously avoiding eye contact, and it seemed Harry’s conversational olive branch had been accepted.

“If anyone would know, I imagine Granger would be the woman.” Malfoy gestured over Harry’s shoulder, back the way they had come into the forest. “If you’re happy with what you’ve seen here in The Copse I can take you along to the orchard - there are more wand woods there. We have cherry and pear trees along with the apples, and there’s a bit of hedgerow with dogwood, hazel, and hawthorn too.”

“That sounds great actually, Malfoy.” Harry looked around the forest one last time. “I have to say, I’m really impressed. The trees are just gorgeous.” 

“Reckon my eleven-year-old self might have fallen over if he’d heard that,” said Malfoy, a self deprecating curl to his mouth. “But thanks. I appreciate it, I’ve worked hard to clear the woods here, to make it better for the trees.”

“Well. It’s paid off I think. And I’d like to see the others too, if you’ve got time?” Harry asked.

He knew from looking at Ollivander’s records that there were lots of suppliers for the more glamorous woods like oak and ash. But he had been surprised to learn that it seemed much rarer to find a good source of woods of the sort you would find in a hedgerow, even though they were just as valuable and made beautiful wands. The prospect of finding even more magically potent woods today was enough to have Harry champing at the bit to see the rest of Malfoy’s trees. 

If he was also looking forward to maybe finding out more about what sort of person Malfoy had grown into? Well, that was for Harry to worry about later.

“Not to worry, I wouldn’t have offered if I didn't have time.” Malfoy brushed past Harry as he walked back towards the bright sunlight and wildflowers in the meadow at the mouth of the forest. “Anyway, you came here to see ‘the goods’ didn’t you? Might as well check them all.”

Harry hurried to follow him, slightly mournful that he had to leave the lush forest and it’s gentle hum of power behind, even though he was excited to see more. 

Once again he fell into step behind Malfoy, and couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered from the back of his exposed neck, tracking Malfoy’s body all the way down to the knee-high leather boots he wore. A small voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Hermione reminded him that those were most definitely  _ not _ the goods he was here to check out, so he raised his gaze and firmly resolved to keep his eyes to himself for the rest of the visit. This was Draco sodding Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake. 

Malfoy narrated their walk through the meadow, answering Harry’s questions about what range of trees he had in the forest and what timescales his seasonal harvests worked on as they passed the stone workshop Harry had arrived in, and down to an area of level ground below the huge stone manor house that sprawled along a high point on the grounds. Harry couldn’t help but stare, the scale of the place was ridiculous. But more to the point - it didn't look anything like he remembered.

Malfoy looked over his shoulder at Harry’s sudden silence, and must have seen the surprise on his face.

“Ah.” A frown marred his high brow as he stopped and turned to face Harry properly. “I suppose it looks different than the last time you saw it. I have to apologise, I know I argued the toss in the workshop but it really wasn’t fair of me to have you arrive with no warning, not after what you and your friends went through here.”

Harry hoped his astonishment didn’t show too clearly on his face. This day was quickly climbing in the ranks of moments he genuinely couldn’t even have imagined happening. Which said a lot considering he’d found out he was a bloody wizard on his eleventh birthday. Draco Malfoy saying sorry felt like it was about on par with that for sheer unbelievability.

“Er. Well, no harm no foul, I suppose.” Harry mumbled, feeling like even a year’s warning couldn’t quite have prepared him for the way this reacquaintance with Malfoy was going. He waved absently at the house in question, hoping a change in subject would restore his equilibrium a bit. “So, did you knock it down and rebuild it, or?”

“I did think about it, actually. Just going wild with Bombarda Maxima, or even just a bloody sledge hammer, until there was nothing but rubble left, but—” Malfoy broke off and shrugged, starting towards the orchard again now visible up ahead. “That was about the time I started finding out that not  _ all _ of my family history was shameful, and it felt wrong somehow to demolish it all. I found scrolls of old blueprints from a couple of hundred years ago, from when they did miles of structural changes. I got into the foundation transfigurations and undid the changes, and the house reverted back to what it used to look like.”

“Wow. I didn’t know that was actually something you could do.” Harry admitted. 

He wondered at the scale of the research and magic involved. Malfoy Manor was enormous, and from what little he’d learned about major magical building works from the rebuilding of Hogwarts, Harry knew it was no easy task. It had taken teams of specialised wizards, working in concert, to mend each broken part of the old castle. Had Malfoy managed to do all that alone? 

“Well, I had to figure it out as I worked. But it was easier than it could have been; all of the structural charms and wards are keyed to the bloodline so getting access wasn’t an issue.” Malfoy tucked his hands into his pockets, gazing at his home, now rambling honey-coloured stone rather than austere white formality. “It took me about six months, all in. But it was worth every moment of wrangling.”

Harry watched as a wry smile curled at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth. 

“Magical houses are a bit like Hippogriffs; you have to earn their respect before you can convince them that change is a good idea, even if you know the enchantments forwards and backwards.” Malfoy turned, shooting Harry a smirk. “I reckon you’d have managed it in a week going by your track record with difficult-to-please magical entities.”

He could hardly believe it, even as he let out a surprised laugh, but here they were; Harry was having a civil—no— _ entertaining _ conversation with Malfoy of all people. When he’d seen Malfoy walk into the workshop, all of his old suspicions and anxieties had stirred to life in his gut, and now he almost wanted to stay all day to find out more about how this man grew out of the mean boy from his memories.

“I think my house would say differently.” Harry nodded up at the house on the hill—well, more of a castle really—there were bloody turrets and crenellations mixed in with its rambling mass of windows. “Six months then? Who helped you?”

“Well, Mother helped for some of it. Blaise and Pansy too, when they had time. It was mostly just me though.” Malfoy shrugged, as if to brush off any impending pity before it could land. “It was good for me. Time to think. Time to learn. It was a chance to work on something challenging that wasn’t… well, that wasn’t war-related. Anyway, the whole house is more to my taste now. And there is nothing, not a stick of furniture, not a grain of mortar,  _ nothing _ left that was touched by Voldemort.”

“It looks good, Malfoy. Really good.” Harry replied.

They lapsed into a brief silence, both looking at the house, both remembering. It hadn’t crossed Harry’s mind until this very moment, but Malfoy must have been terrified in that house. Harry had lived with Voldemort flitting in and out of his memories, his dreams. He couldn’t imagine the horror of having him physically walking the halls of his home, eating at his table, murdering within its walls. No wonder Malfoy had wanted a clean slate. 

It was Malfoy who interrupted the quiet, his clipped tones and slight pallor giving away his emotions.

“Come on then, let’s get you to the Orchard so you can get home. I can’t imagine lingering here is your idea of a good day.” Malfoy said, the attempt at humour falling short in the face of the reminder of their shared history in the Manor.

“Lead the way,” Harry replied.

He hastened his steps to keep up as they turned towards a field hemmed in on three sides by deep hedgerow, covered in flowers and the audible buzz of insects as they drew close. Fruit trees grew in neat rows, their branches carefully pruned and the grass beneath them neatly mown. 

Harry could already see cherry and pear trees, and as they entered the orchard properly he got a good look at the trees and shrubs in the hedge. It was fainter than in the forest on the hill, but he could feel the gentle hum of magic once again, like the murmur of bees amongst the bramble flowers. 

Malfoy wove his way through the trees with easy familiarity, some he gently patted as he walked past them as though they were great leafed animals needing to be soothed. 

Harry ducked under the lower branches of a cherry tree, small fruits already developing, hanging like gems amongst green leaves. But Harry ignored them in favour of the few small fallen branches on the ground beneath them. He sunk down on his haunches to pick one up. Turning it over in his hands, he could hardly believe the potential he felt, magic waiting patiently in the wood like the perfect answer to a riddle on the tip of his tongue.

Somehow he was less surprised by this than by the strangely easy conversation with Malfoy.  _ Of course _ the merest fallen twig from Malfoy’s trees felt like it would make a better wand than half of the wood he’d ever worked with. Of course! That was just how Harry’s life worked. His childhood rival, his last remaining enemy — if he could even be called that now — and here he was being polite, friendly even, and just so happening to own the finest wand wood that Harry had ever handled.

He had known as soon as he had touched the oak in the forest, but this little stick of cherry wood just confirmed it. Harry  _ had _ to have the wood from Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods, even if it did mean giving patronage to Malfoy. Though admittedly that didn’t hold the same bitter taste as it might have earlier that day.

Regardless of Harry’s feelings on the matter, he couldn’t deny that this wand wood was perfect for their needs in Ollivander’s shop. A more pertinent fact remained however; Garrick Ollivander himself had been held captive on this very estate. Harry had to hold back from making any commitments, even in his own head, about having Malfoy as a supplier. Not before he got the okay from Ollivander.

“Malfoy!” Harry called, the sudden need to get back to the shop and talk to his mentor as soon as possible overpowering his desire to linger amongst the dappled shade of the trees and the gentle, cosseting warmth of their latent magic.

“Everything alright Potter?” 

Harry looked up from his position on the ground, still absently fiddling with the small branch in his hands. Malfoy towered over him, loose curls falling over his forehead as he looked down at Harry with a slight frown on his face.

“Oh. Erm. Everything’s fine,” Harry replied, gesturing vaguely with the wood in his hand. “It’s good. Really good.” 

He stood, suddenly feeling the need to be eye to eye with Malfoy; not sure where the tight feeling in his chest came from as he looked up at him from his knees, not sure what it meant. Malfoy raised an eyebrow as he got to his feet, and Harry could feel his face heat at the implication. Was it an implication? He really did need to get out of here, things were getting weird.

“I think I’ve seen enough actually.” Harry blurted. “I should get back to the shop, talk to Ollivander.”

“That’s great.” Malfoy looked awkward suddenly, as if he hadn’t quite planned this far. “I’ll walk you back to the workshop.”

Their return to the low stone building Harry had stumbled into that morning seemed to pass in moments. Before he knew it they were once again standing in the cool space, flagstones beneath their feet, the scent of timber on the air. Once again Malfoy hovered in the doorway, watching as Harry reached out to take a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the huge stone mantelpiece. Just as Harry reached out to drop the powder into the grate, Malfoy stepped forward.

“Thank you, Potter. For giving the trees a chance, that is. I’m sorry for what I said about you being prejudiced, I’ve got some gall even suggesting it. But thank you for staying anyway.” That self-deprecating smirk lingered at the corner of his mouth again.

Harry’s surprise was probably written all over his face. A thank you  _ and _ an apology from Draco Malfoy in the space of one breath. This day clearly wasn’t finished smashing his expectations. 

“Er. You’re welcome Malfoy. And you might have had a fair point earlier, even if you’re right about it being a bit of a ‘pot-kettle’ situation.” Harry waved awkwardly with his powder free hand. “I’ll send you an owl to keep you up to date.”

He threw his handful of Floo powder into the grate. The last thing he saw from Wiltshire was Malfoy’s hand raised in goodbye as he stepped into green flames and called out the shop address. His mind whirling with everything he had seen, everything he had learned. 

Draco Malfoy seemed to have discovered humility. He was as protective of a forest full of magical trees and their tiny Bowtruckle inhabitants as Hagrid would be, like they were members of his extended family. He had almost single-handedly changed the very bones of his childhood home to cleanse it of Voldemort’s taint. What kind of man he had become?

  
  



	3. Of Letters and Loved Ones

Harry tumbled out of the fireplace in the backroom of Ollivander’s Wand Shop with his usual elegance. Dusting himself off, he waved his wand to get the kettle started. Tea would be just the thing to calm his racing heart. The charms did their work and his favourite mug bobbed gently to the worktop he sat at.

With a sigh he picked up his tea and took a sip, wondering how exactly he should approach the conversation with Ollivander.

Talking about the war was always difficult for Harry. His own traumas reared their ugly heads, and he couldn’t help the way his heart always wrenched when others shared their own stories. He and Ollivander at least had the benefit of knowing some of the intricacies of each other’s experiences.

For all that Harry could think of a million ways of presenting the idea of doing business with Malfoy, he knew that being straightforward was his only real option. Ollivander might drift into vague pronouncements and nostalgia on a regular basis, but underneath all that he had a sharp mind and a respect for the truth.

Harry cast a quick Tempus, surprised at how much time he had spent with Malfoy. Ollivander usually left early, so Harry decided that sooner was better than later and called out, asking the old man for him to join him. If he didn’t get this conversation out of the way Harry would only worry about it overnight, and he made a practice of avoiding that sort of needless angst these days.

“Harry, my boy!” Ollivander sounded delighted to see Harry, as he always seemed to be. “I was wondering when I’d see you back, that must have been quite the visit. What do we think of Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods?”

Harry waved his wand, setting another tea cup to brewing for Ollivander, taking the moment to catch his breath before just going for it.

“It went well. Really well, actually. I would honestly make them our main British supplier without any hesitation if it were just up to me. But Sir, you should know that Draco Malfoy owns and operates the business. It wasn’t clear until I visited and there he was.” Harry paused, watching Ollivander’s face, trying to parse his expression to see what he was thinking about the news. “I completely understand if you want nothing to do with him.”

If Harry had been told that he would end his work day reassuring Ollivander that they don’t have to work with Malfoy, while secretly wanting nothing more than to immediately send off a contract, he wouldn’t have believed a word of it. But here he was. Quietly wishing he could at least make one wand from that glorious oak from The Copse.

Ollivander sipped at the tea that had floated over to him as Harry spoke. His face was inscrutable as he stared into space, blue eyes focused on nothing at all that Harry could see.

“I think...” Ollivander began, trailing off as he took another sip. “I think that if you believe that those wand woods are of sufficient quality, and if you think that young Mister Malfoy is worthy of your trade, then they are, and he is.”

Harry couldn’t quite believe he’d heard him right. Surely Ollivander couldn’t be agreeing to the notion of working with Malfoy that easily. But he was already rising to his feet, cup in hand, and tottering off to the front of the shop to close up.

“Are you sure, Sir? I thought…” Harry hesitated, not sure what to say to clarify without putting Ollivander off the idea entirely.

“Did you know that he brought us food when we were down there? I imagine Miss Lovegood and Mr Thomas told you.” Ollivander turned, that damned sparkle in his eyes Harry remembered all the way from the day he got his own wand. “It was interesting what we heard while we were in that house. Mr Malfoy’s wand chose well, in the end.”

With that parting shot Ollivander swept off into the main shop, leaving Harry gaping at his work bench, wondering what exactly the old man meant by that. He leapt up, grabbing down the 1990-1995 book of sales to look up what wand had chosen Malfoy.

31st July 1991 - 10”, Hawthorn, Unicorn Hair, reasonably pliant - Draco Lucius Malfoy

Harry scribbled down the details on a scrap of parchment and shoved it in his pocket before trying to put it out of his mind. Andromeda and Teddy were coming over that night for supper so he didn’t have time to waste on Ollivander’s cryptic remarks.

He sped through the last of his duties for the day as he listened to Ollivander close up the shop and Apparate home. Throwing one last Scourgify at the work tables and checking that the broom had swept all of the sawdust neatly into the bin, Harry grabbed his bag and spun into his own Apparition.

* * *

Much like his dinner nights with friends, Harry had developed a regular routine of seeing Andromeda and Teddy at least once a week. Tonks and Remus’ little boy was four now, thoughtful and rambunctious in equal turns, and one of Harry’s favourite people in the world. He never lost sight of the opportunity he had, to be the kind of Godfather he had always needed; to give Teddy unconditional love, attention, support, the confidence that someone would be there for him always.

Tonight it was his turn to host the pair for an early supper, though often Andromeda took the opportunity to drop Teddy off and then take a few hours for herself. She had clearly been uncomfortable visiting him in Grimmauld Place at first, still not even knowing Harry himself very well at that point, barely sipping the tea he had made for her in the early days - never mind eating a meal. It had taken time for Harry too, to see past the echoes of Bellatrix in her face, as much as it had for her to see the present instead of the history she had lived in every room of the house.

But their shared adoration of Teddy had quickly eased the way and soon they found more common ground than he could ever have expected. As much as she might have resembled her sister, Andromeda often reminded Harry of Sirius, with the same sardonic humour and slightly devil-may-care attitude. He could see how this woman had rebelled against a powerful family like the Blacks without looking back; once she decided on something, nothing was going to stop her. Teddy was already showing signs of the same kind of fierce personal independence, which she always supported, and Harry was always proud of.

Today that independence was expressing itself in fuchsia pink hair, lilac eyes, and a pair of violently red dungarees combined with a bright orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt. Andromeda followed Teddy through the front door, dressed in black from head to toe, her silver-streaked hair drawn into a neat twist. She had worn black since the end of the war, maintaining a deep mourning for her husband and daughter that betrayed the old traditions she had grown up with, despite the way she had rejected the rest of her upbringing. Harry often thought that was why she took so much delight in letting Teddy dress himself; combined with the Metamorphmagus magic he inherited from his mum, he was usually the most colourful person in the room.

“Harry, darling, you’re looking well.” Andromeda leaned in to kiss him on each cheek. “How’s work?”

“Not bad Andy, how was the gang at the Burrow at the weekend?”

Harry reached down to grab Teddy up into his arms, swinging him up to rest on his hip, laughing as Teddy immediately interrupted his grandmother to launch into a detailed description of how Victoire was ‘only half as old as I am and she can’t change her hair’ but that she was good fun to play with anyway. Harry grinned at Andromeda over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen, a child-friendly dinner waiting ready in the oven.

As they ate, Teddy happily munching his way through a mountain of bangers and mash, asking questions and telling stories between mouthfuls, Harry tried to think of how to tell Andromeda about his visit to Malfoy Manor. It felt risky bringing it up with her, given her family history, but also like she might be the best person to discuss it with. Despite her rejection of her family and their poisonous values, she didn’t seem to hold the same kind of hatred that Sirius had carried. Instead of twelve years in Azkaban, she had spent her life with the man she loved, raising her daughter, and coming to terms with the way she had been brought up. Even in her grief she didn’t seem to hold any of the bitterness that had coloured Sirius’ worldview after his escape.

When Teddy had still been a little baby Harry had had a major crisis of confidence. Andromeda had found him one evening, sitting next to Teddy’s crib in her house. He had been crying his eyes out and wondering what on earth he could have to offer this sweetly sleeping child, him with barely a single intact memory of parents who loved him, him with a past full of cupboards and hunger, cruelty and rejection. Andromeda had sat on the floor next to him, thrown her arm around his heaving shoulders, and patiently explained that no-one is responsible for how they are raised, only for how they choose to live. Somehow it was easier to believe coming from her, knowing that she had cast off the shackles of her own childhood, than it ever would have been had someone like Mrs Weasley told him.

He still felt off-kilter after his time with Malfoy, like he had met an entirely new person; like the boy he knew from school had transformed on a level Harry hadn’t expected, hadn’t even realised was possible. Andromeda might be the only person who could understand that kind of transformation. Harry decided to try and come at it sideways, not bringing Malfoy up specifically, to sound out her thoughts.

“So, I was wondering, um, if you’d heard anything from Narcissa after the trials?” He shovelled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth, stopping himself from blurting out anything about Malfoy yet.

Andromeda sipped at her glass of wine, one dark eyebrow raised questioningly at him (was it genetic, this eyebrow thing?) Clearly his subtle approach wasn’t working quite as well as he’d hoped.

“She wrote to me, actually, about a year ago. I was half-tempted to just Incendio it. But curiosity won out, and this time it didn’t kill the cat, just startled it.” A wry smile curled at Andromeda’s mouth. “She actually apologised, in her own way, for her husband’s actions, the way they led to…” She trailed off, a quiver in her chin the only sign of the immense grief that lurked so close to the surface, even now, before breathing deeply and continuing. “She apologised for that, and for things in our youth too; for never meeting Nymphadora. I decided to accept those apologies.”

Harry could feel himself gaping, hardly able to imagine what must have been written in that letter. His own interactions with Malfoy’s mother had given him the clear impression of a towering pride, a detachment, an interest only in her husband and her son. He would be grateful for her intercession in the Forbidden Forest for the rest of his life, but even after that he couldn’t imagine her opening herself to the possible blowback from someone like Andromeda. But maybe Narcissa Malfoy had changed as much as her son had, maybe she was shedding her own skins, opening her eyes to family she still had even if they weren’t still on the Black tapestry.

“Why do you ask?” She tilted her head, watching him with dark eyes. “You know I’m happy to tell you, I just wonder what brought on this sudden interest in Narcissa all these years after the trials.”

“Um. I was actually on the grounds at Malfoy Manor today. On business for Ollivander.” He shrugged, toying with his food and avoiding eye contact. “Seems Malfoy has set himself up as a wand wood grower.”

Andromeda’s face remained impassive as she nodded at Harry to continue, absently reaching out to wipe Teddy’s face as he spoke.

“It was weird really. I was angry at first, suspicious.” Harry watched Teddy chase a pea around his plate, glad for the opportunity to focus on something other than Andromeda’s reactions. “But he seems different. Still pointy, still posh. But he was actually sort of friendly, talked about Muggles like they weren’t dirt on his shoe, apologised for some things.”

“Was it just professional civility? Or do you think he was trying to make some kind of amends?” Andromeda asked.

“At first I thought it was just him trying to sneak his way back into everyone’s good books by getting in with Ollivander, but by the time I was leaving–” Harry shrugged, finally making eye contact again as he continued. “He’s changed the house, changed the way he looks, it seems like he might have actually changed his attitude too.”

Andromeda was quiet, her lips pursed as she watched him from across the table. Her dark gaze was penetrating and Harry tried not to twitch as she regarded him. She was a quiet and thoughtful woman, prone to thinking before she spoke, and though Harry wasn’t used to that kind of thing, he always listened to her words. She was patient and her advice was usually sound, and always free of agenda, which was a relatively new experience for Harry when it came to his elders. She toyed with the stem of her wineglass as she broke her silence.

“I think that perhaps you should give some thought to what kind of changes he seems to be trying to make, what they mean, and whether you feel they are genuine. Regaining his social standing is not a bad thing in and of itself, depending on his motivation.” She caught Harry’s eye once more as she delivered her final advice. “I know that you think of him as the boy he was at school, a Slytherin, and one of Voldemort’s pawns. But I was a Slytherin too. Remember that cunning and ambition aren’t necessarily bad traits when aimed at the right goal; perhaps the boy has realised he should be pointing his wand in a new direction.”

Teddy took that break in grown-up conversation to declare that he absolutely needed Uncle Harry to take him into the garden and show him the gnome holes he had spotted on his last visit. With the moment broken, Harry was glad of the chance to escape outside and try to put off conflicting thoughts about Malfoy until later.

* * *

In the days after his visit to Malfoy’s estate, Harry kept himself busy with his apprentice work - both academic and practical. A few visits to other wand wood suppliers went well, though they were boring in comparison with his trip to Wiltshire. Harry dutifully sent follow up letters to them all, including Malfoy, and tried not to examine his own excited reaction when he saw the response with the silver seal sitting in the inbox the following day.

At first their correspondence was staid and formal, as formal as Harry ever got anyway. But after the first couple of letters confirming Ollivander’s desire to take Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods on as a supplier, and Malfoy’s willingness to supply exclusively to the wand shop, they began to meander in their written conversations.

Before he knew it, Harry was writing to Malfoy from home, mentioning his ideas and theories around wandmaking, receiving intelligent and considered responses from him. A fortnight after Harry’s visit, Malfoy actually sent a book from his family library about the way magical trees grow. To give him ‘a more well-rounded appreciation of the work of his suppliers, and the way wand woods might respond to the different methods Harry used on them in his workshop’, according to Malfoy.

Harry had to wander aimlessly around the whole house after he read one letter from Malfoy on a Friday evening. In neat cursive handwriting he had straightforwardly thanked Harry for returning his wand to him, described how difficult it had been without it — needing to borrow his mother’s which didn’t work well for him — and the bone-deep relief he had felt when his own wand was back in his hands. Malfoy had explained that he was grateful that his own wand had accepted Harry, that it performed for him, that Harry had been able to do what he did with it, to win the war to, ‘save us all’. Harry had felt his pulse thudding in his temple as he had read; a strange mixture of confusion and pride filling him.

He had ended up walking around the square three times before he settled enough to respond. He thanked Malfoy for not giving them away at the Manor, for giving Harry the headstart he needed to get his friends away from Bellatrix. Both of them were skirting around details of the bigger issues, but Harry still watched Malfoy’s owl fly into the night feeling like a great weight was off his chest, as if he had shifted something heavy he had been carrying without knowing.

* * *

It was Ron’s turn to cook for the monthly dinner party, and Harry had been lounging at the dining table with a beer chatting and watching him cook in the kitchen while the rest of their friends arrived in dribs and drabs and settled in the living room. Harry felt as comfortable and relaxed in Ron and Hermione’s house as he did his own, having stayed with them for months while he refurbished Grimmauld Place, after the three of them had felt ready to end their protracted stay at The Burrow. They still kept some of his old clothes in the wardrobe in their spare room, and the knowledge he would always have a place at their table was one of the rocks Harry had built his stable life on.

“Guys! GUYS! Dinner’s ready!” Ron shouted around the kitchen door, an answering chorus of shouts and laughter from down the hall audible before the sound of feet down the hall.

Harry grinned as everyone piled into their seats around the table. It was always a slightly rowdy night when Ron cooked, as if his own wild enthusiasm for food was catching. Ginny even started banging her knife and fork on the table and chanting for potatoes, glee in her eyes at the resulting laughter from them all. Ron stood and dished them all portions from the steaming bowls and dishes on hot plates in the centre of the table, making sure everyone got their fair share before sitting down himself, still wearing his apron as he dug into his meal.

As everyone calmed from the excitement of food on their plates, and compliments were paid to Ron on his cooking, Ginny piped up from across the table.

“So, how’s the new work project going Harry?”

Conversation tailed off around the table and Harry looked up from his dinner to find all eyes on him. Even Ron was eyeballing him as he stuffed roast chicken into his mouth. A coordinated attack then.

For a moment, Harry reflected on how in the year or so after the war he would have flown off the handle in spectacular style at the notion that his friends had all talked about him behind his back and then decided to confront him. Because they had definitely had some kind of discussion about this before tonight. But a brilliant Mind Healer, patience, and friends with total willingness to call him on his bullshit meant that now Harry just felt his chest glow with warmth knowing they all loved him enough to care.

Harry leant back in his seat, looking around his friend’s faces.

“So, which one of you figured out that Wiltshire Wizarding Wand Woods was obviously Malfoy?”

Everyone at the table immediately pointed at Ron.

“What? It didn't take a genius, mate.” Ron shrugged apologetically.

Harry conceded the point with a nod of his head as his friends laughed around him, before launching into his account of the strangest day of his apprenticeship so far. He had imagined they might all recoil in horror hearing that he had met Malfoy again, but curiosity was the overwhelming response. Even Luna and Dean seemed to be weirdly receptive to the idea that Malfoy was trying to re-enter society; remembering Ollivander’s comments about their time held captive at Malfoy Manor Harry resolved to talk to them about it.

Hermione barely let him finish his loving description of the trees he had seen before she was interrupting to ask about Malfoy’s house.

“No, but Harry, you don’t understand. Did he give you any details about how he did it? That kind of magic is usually deeply tied to family properties and bloodlines, but even then it usually takes a lot of individuals to team up together to work them. If he only had his mother around to help as a relation then, well,” Hermione shook her head, her wild curls shaking in emphasis. “I’m not sure how he managed it.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him the next time I send him a letter Hermione, ask him for a detailed how-to for mucking around with magical houses, just for you.” Harry laughed.

While Hermione took him completely seriously instead of picking up on his obvious sarcasm and continued waxing lyrical about large scale structural charms and the extensive warding a project like that would require, Harry noticed Ginny eyeing him. As soon as she saw him notice, she leaned in.

“So, what’s old ferret face like now? Can’t imagine you’d be all glowy-eyed about his wood if he was still the slick little shit he used to be.”

Harry feels his cheeks heat at her innuendo, acutely aware that she really wasn’t that far off being right, pinned to the spot by her arched eyebrow and devilish grin. She still saw through him as easily as she had when he was sixteen. Even now, their romance years behind them, he loved her to pieces for moments just like this. He knew her questions weren’t just taking the mickey, she just expressed concern in her own way.

“He’s–” Harry paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to explain the peculiar ways Malfoy appeared to have changed. “He’s different, I think. Or maybe he’s the same... just under such different circumstances it’s like he’s another person.”

Ginny’s grin faded slightly and she took a swig from her bottle of beer.

“I think you could probably say that about all of us, Harry. I’m glad though. That he’s not being a shit. Be careful though.” That arched eyebrow was back. “I remember how you used to be about him.”

“I’m not-”

“Just reminding you Harry. Nothing more,” Ginny cut across him. “You’re a free agent, we all just care about you.”

Across the table Ron brought up Neville’s date with Blaise Zabini and Luna was already checking if he was really going to come to meet them all, Ginny winked at Harry as she reached out to steal his last roastie before joining in with asking Neville about his new boyfriend.

Relieved that the attention had moved away from him, Harry sipped at his beer, wondering at what point he had given Ginny the impression that his weird re-association with Malfoy required her to remind him he was single and that his friends supported him. Even more concerning was the relief that none of them had rejected the idea that Malfoy might be trying to be a better person, because that meant Harry wanted them to approve. And he certainly didn’t need their approval for a strictly professional relationship, did he?

That night as Harry grabbed a glass of water before heading to bed, the familiar tap at the kitchen window announced another owl. Another letter from Malfoy. Just a short missive extending another invitation for Harry to visit the woods, this time apparently on behalf of the trees themselves, but still with the friendly tone that had developed between them. Harry wondered exactly how Malfoy knew the trees wanted anything at all, but quickly scrawled out a response eagerly accepting the offer.

He couldn’t wait to see the trees again, to feel that hum of magic rising from the earth, to find out how to ask the trees for permission to take their wood. But if Harry was really honest with himself, which he tried to make a rule of these days, he had to admit he couldn't help but want to spend more time with Malfoy as well, to see if the apparent changes he had made were more than skin deep.

Anticipation for the visit already fizzing in his belly, Harry climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He went to bed thinking about Malfoy, his mind wandering to the way the back of his neck looked as he led the way to the forest, the way his hair was even whiter than Harry remembered from school, the way he had caught the sun across his nose and cheeks.

Alone in his bed, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what Malfoy had thought of him that day. Was Malfoy maybe inviting him back because he, like Harry, wanted to know more about the other? Was it just about the trees? Or was it just him wanting to promote his business, make money and respectability from the connection to Ollivander - and maybe even Harry himself. Harry remembered Andromeda’s advice, and decided to really try and parse out what Malfoy was wanting with his new approach. Even so, he struggled to fall asleep, feeling like a teenager again as his mind whirled with images of white hair, grey eyes, and the green of the forest.


	4. Of Permissions and Invitations

Malfoy was waiting for him this time as Harry stepped through the Floo, his elbow aching from where it knocked the hearth on his way in. Now the notion was in his head Harry couldn’t help but notice that Malfoy looked pretty good. Knee-high boots and a lightweight white shirt made him look like something off the cover from one of Mrs Figg’s romance novels. Harry’s fingers twitched as he watched Malfoy tuck a stray curl behind his ear.

At first their conversation was stilted, both of them now more familiar with each other’s letters than their actual presence, but on the walk to the woods they each fumbled their way along until they settled into the topic of their latest correspondence, safe from their unexpected acknowledgement of war-time debts and regrets.

Malfoy was as well read as Hermione, with the added benefit of having an adjacent speciality to Harry’s focus on wandmaking. They discussed the way that wand construction had changed over the centuries, how wizards used to simply use fallen twigs or branches that called to their magic and that was sufficient. As spellwork became more intricate, wands had to evolve to keep up with the ever-more delicate and focused craft that magic users pursued. Harry explained how the idea to introduce cores from magical creatures into wands was a huge leap, fundamentally changing the way that wizards' innate traits played into their magical expression.

Malfoy shared his discovery from old family records, accounts from centuries past, that described how young witches and wizards would go on long pilgrimage walks across the country to find the channelling wand that called to their magic as a kind of rite of passage. Harry laughed, delighted at the history, and the new insight into the way wands were made. 

“The wand chooses the wizard!” Harry quoted, watching as Malfoy’s face broke into a grin as he recognised it.

“I reckon that every witch or wizard that’s ever walked into that shop has heard Ollivander say that.” Malfoy mused.

“Yeah, probably. I still hear him telling the little kids that in the run up to September every year.”

“I remember how special it felt though, after he said that, and then when it happened,” Malfoy shrugged, like he was embarrassed by the admission, but he carried on anyway. “When he handed me that purple box and I just _ knew _ as soon as I touched the wand. I knew it was mine.”

Harry could remember the moment he touched his own wand for the first time, the feel of his magic flowing, being able to tap his own power. 

“That’s why I went into this apprenticeship, there were other reasons, but that was a big one. I wanted to be part of giving that feeling to children, that feeling of… I don’t know… rightness, when you hold your wand for the first time. When it chooses you.” 

“I understand. Like I said, even being reunited with my wand was incredibly important to me. It was part of why I decided to start this business.” A sardonic smile twisted Malfoy’s mouth. “Given my past, it seemed appropriate to take the opportunity to try and play my tiny part in sharing the magic more freely. Even if nobody knows it’s me providing the wood for their wands, I like to think of them going out into the world.”

Slightly taken aback at Malfoy’s direct acknowledgment of his old prejudices, Harry eyed him curiously.

“Are you going to stay anonymous then? Do you not want me to tell anyone about you owning the business?” He asked.

“I’m not anonymous. I’m just private. As you can imagine, my name isn’t worth much these days. I don't want people to ignore the quality of the trees just because they happen to grow on my land.” A small scowl. “And I certainly don't want you pity-promoting me either, Potter.”

“Ah- I don’t think we’re at risk of that. If you’d prefer to stay private I can understand the urge, believe me. But any promotion of your business will absolutely be based on how gorgeous your wood is.” Harry smiled reassuringly, then blanched at how ridiculous his wording sounded. “Er. I mean. _ The _ wood, not your wood. The wand wood, that’s yours.”

Malfoy faced him, a startled look on his face as he watched Harry stumble through his words. He let out an inelegant snort, then burst into laughter, his whole face transformed. Ginny was right to warn Harry; he was even more compromised than he had thought. Because, _ fuck. _ Malfoy was _ beautiful _. 

Thankfully, by now they were fully submerged in the green depths of The Copse and Harry could look away into the trees, hiding what was likely a poleaxed expression. 

Once again he could feel the thrum of power beneath his feet, the ripple of energy feeding up through the earth and into the trees around him. Living conduits for magic beyond his scope of understanding. 

“So, what exactly did you mean when you wrote that the trees wanted me to visit?” He asked.

Malfoy leant against the vase-shaped trunk of an elm, looking as comfortable in the middle of the forest as he might in a cosy chair. Harry watched the dappled shadows of leaves play across his face as he thought quietly before responding.

“I come out here often, not just to work on managing the undergrowth, but to walk and think. I know we talked about how you can feel the magic here, but if you wait, if you’re patient, you can also feel the trees’ own presence.” He patted absently at the bark beneath his hand. “It’s not that they _ speak _ or anything like that, but they do manage to communicate their needs in their own way.”

Harry nodded, Malfoy’s vague description making sense to him here under the rustling leaves of the trees. He could feel it himself, already. Standing amongst the trees, listening to the sounds of creaking branches and the gentle breeze, his awareness of Malfoy nearby was a bright spark in his mind’s eye. More subtle than all of that was a gentle but persistent feeling of being amongst living things, like there was an invisible gathering around him that he couldn’t see or hear but still _ knew _ was present. Perhaps this was what people felt when he was in the room wearing his invisibility cloak.

He closed his eyes for a moment, to better pay attention to that silent awareness around him. Moving without thought he reached out, resting his fingertips against the trunk of the tree nearest to him. The rush of energy beneath the bark was familiar, and he opened his eyes to see the huge oak he had touched on his first visit before him. Sudden clarity blossomed within him, a sense of reaching out, of open-handed generosity, of the impulse to share; but it wasn’t coming from _ him _. 

“It’s like... instinct, isn't it?” He whispered, not wanting to interrupt the silent communication he was engaged in, while simultaneously needing to confirm what was happening with Malfoy.

“That’s about as good a description of it as I can think of actually,” Malfoy murmured, falling into the same urge to be quiet as Harry.

“I think this is me getting permission, Malfoy.”

“I thought as much, Potter.”

Harry whipped out the small notebook he always kept in his back pocket and scribbled out notes of the specific sensations he had experienced, Malfoy’s descriptions of his visits, and his own emerging ideas about the level of sentience in magical trees. Malfoy waited, surprisingly quiet and patient as he waited for Harry to make his records. He privately wondered what Ron would say about his new level of communing with the trees, imagining the jokes about how Harry _ knew _ the trees alright, the tree fancier. At least now he could defend himself, because Draco bloody Malfoy was _ also _ a tree obsessive, apparently.

“Why don’t we head up to the house for a cool drink?” Malfoy suggested. “We can sit and work out the logistics of supplying the shop now that you’ve got the okay from Ollivander, and now the trees have given you the seal of approval.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, briefly conflicted about visiting the house before reminding himself that it, too, had been changed beyond all recognition.

“Yeah, alright then.” He agreed.

As they walked side by side through the meadow leading up to the building on the hill Harry took the chance to really look at Malfoy Manor as it now appeared, from his view below it he could really get a feel for both the scope of the building and the extent of the changes Malfoy had made. 

There were no more symmetrical towers, no high walls, or bone-white bricks. Now the house rambled across the high point of the property, honey-coloured stone golden in the sunshine, archaic crenellated turrets both rounded and square made a jumbled facade, elegant in its eccentricity. A sweeping curved room to the far side caught his eye, all arched windows, looking down onto what appeared to be formal gardens. 

It was there that Malfoy led them to, up garden steps in the same stone, and when he opened the door to invite Harry into the room he found it light, bright, and filled with plants. It was a conservatory on the grandest scale, and Harry couldn’t help but think Neville would give his right arm to get a look at some of the specimens. Harry stared around the room as they sat at a small but ornate cast iron table near the windows; it was a beautiful space, and so utterly unlike any environment he could have imagined Malfoy choosing for himself– if he’d ever actually thought about it before now.

A quiet _ pop _ announced the arrival of a House Elf, diminutive and perky eared, wearing a tiny but perfectly neat uniform in pale blue. Harry recognised the signs of a unionised Free House Elf, astonishing as it was to see Malfoy employing one. 

“Dinky came to work here shortly after my trial was over,” Malfoy explained, having seen Harry’s expression. “She’s rather effectively managed the other Elves who have arrived since, haven’t you, Dinky?”

The tiny Elf preened under Malfoy’s compliment, her bright green eyes widening in happiness.

“Yes Sir, Dinky is enjoying looking after the Manor. Dinky especially likes it now Mister Malfoy is finished with his fixing.” 

Harry could hardly believe his eyes. He knew Hermione had taken S.P.E.W and picked it right back up again after the war, but to think it had reached as far as Malfoy Manor seemed to be too good to be true. Harry watched as Malfoy took the silver tray with glasses and a jug of fresh elderflower cordial his obviously happy House Elf had delivered, and proceeded to pour them both a drink. 

Dinky disappeared with the same subtle noise and then it was just the two of them sitting at the table, sipping their drinks, and catching each others’ eyes as they both glanced at each other and then determinedly out of the window. It wasn’t so much the way the sunlight shone in through the glass and lit up Malfoy’s fair colouring that kept drawing Harry’s attention, gorgeous though it was, as the new light Harry was suddenly seeing him in. He wasn’t quite sure what part his own own face was catching Malfoy’s eye; Harry was wearing his hair loose today and he was confident his own messy curls were hiding his scar as effectively as ever, so it couldn’t be that. 

Andromeda’s words from their supper night rang in his ears, and he thought about what he had seen so far of the person Malfoy was now. Still sharp and quite willing to argue his point, still absurdly posh, but now showing a House Elf as much respect as he had extended to Harry; now willing to share his inherited magic with any wizarding child that might walk into Ollivander’s Wand Shop. Maybe he did want to regain the respect of the wizarding world, to repair the black mark on his family name, but it seemed to Harry that Malfoy was more interested in _ making _ those positive changes than he was in being commended for them. The boy he attended school with would _ never _ have accepted being ‘private’ in any sense of the word, if it meant not having his achievements lauded publicly and ostentatiously.

Malfoy broke the quiet that had fallen over them both, drawing Harry into discussion about contracts and supply times, dates for Harry to visit and pick the branches he wanted Malfoy to harvest for the shop. All throughout they continued their dance of watching each other without wanting to be caught. Harry couldn’t help the rise of anticipation in his belly at the tension building between them over their matter-of-fact business conversation, nothing at all like the brash antagonism of their school years.

Eventually they come to an accord, having crossed their t’s and dotted their i’s, and Harry reluctantly admitted he should be heading back to the shop. Malfoy led him to a discreet fireplace at the far end of the solarium for Harry to Floo through. 

Harry gathered his nerve and held his hand out to Malfoy, he looked startled but pleased, and took Harry’s hand in a firm handshake.

“Well,” Malfoy drawled. “If you’re going to insist on being a reasonable grown-up about things, then perhaps you should call me Draco. Now that we’ll be working together.”

“Alright. Might take me a while to get used to, mind you. Call me Harry.”

Malfoy nodded, a wry smile on his face, “Okay. Well, goodbye for now then, Harry.”

Harry nodded mindlessly, internally reeling at this weirdly significant step of using each other’s first names. Dimly, he realised that long moments had passed and he was still holding Malfoy’s pale hand in his own. His cheeks hot, he dropped it, fumbling his goodbyes as he hurried into the Floo.

* * *

Harry spent the following day focusing on practical things. He gave a whole batch of Hawthorn wands their first turn on the lathe– sketching out their final form, checked the stores, and cleaned the the workshop from top to bottom. Anything to distract himself from the way it had felt sort of _ nice _ holding Malfoy’s hand, the way he’d actually liked the way Malfoy said his name, the way that handshake felt like the start of something.

Ollivander interrupted Harry’s perhaps _ slightly _ too intense ceiling dusting just after lunch.

“Harry, my boy, what’s going on? I haven’t seen the floor this clean for forty years. Are you quite alright?” Ollivander asked, disbelief clear in his tone.

“Er. Yes, Mr Ollivander. Just wanted to– you know– tidy up a bit.” Harry replied.”

Ollivander looked around the sparkling workshop, a bewildered expression on his face.

“Well, you’ve certainly managed that. Is this about the Malfoy boy? I know you visited him yesterday with the contract, I don’t want you worrying about my reaction.” Ollivander nodded to himself as he continued. “I’m quite happy for us to work with him. I told you he was a perfect match for his Hawthorn and unicorn hair, didn’t I? Think of that time of turmoil that wand carried him through– and it’s a tricky wood– not tolerant of an incompetant wizard, oh no. And that unicorn hair wouldn't take well to the Dark Arts, and from what I saw in that house, neither did the boy. Not at all well.”

Harry stared at Ollivander, his mouth hanging open in shock at yet another Malfoy-related information-bomb.

“Yes, Mr Ollivander, you mentioned his wand before. I–”

Ollivander interrupted him, a sly glint in his eye.

“Ten inches, _ reasonably _ pliant. I imagine young Mister Malfoy might yet prove himself to be an individual capable of bending himself to new circumstances well. It certainly sounds like the forest has flourished well under his care.”

Harry felt like he was being diverted, guided toward a conversational end-point he hadn’t expected, but couldn’t help but fall into the trap of gushing about the trees on Malfoy’s estate.

“It has. It’s beautiful. Honestly, I think I could pick any fallen twig from the floor of that wood and I could turn a wand out of it. The quality of the wood far surpasses any of our current suppliers.”

“And you are happy to work with him?” Ollivander quizzed. “I am handing responsibility for this aspect of the shop permanently over to you. I no longer bear him any grudges, but whether you feel the same way is your own choice.”

“Oh, I’m happy to work with him!” Harry immediately realised he sounded too eager, and that Ollivander was still looking at him with that sparkle in his eye. “I mean. He’s been very professional so far.”

“And what do you think of his wand, my boy? You used it, after all, didn’t you?”

“I did. I think you’re right. It suits him. A wand that is suited to equip a wizard with turmoil in their nature. And its fidelity to its owner; I think even when his wand worked so well for me... perhaps it was because Malfoy had already decided to try and help me a little himself by that point. Maybe the wand was simply doing what it knew its owner would want…” Harry trailed off, unsure of his point, unsure where his meandering conclusion might lead him, unsure of what Ollivander might think of the whole thing.

Ollivander simply watched him, a beatific smile on his face and that damned twinkle in his eye.

“I think your understanding of wands grows by the day, Harry. And I’m happy we will have access to these fine wand woods thanks to your arrangement with Mister Malfoy.” He looked around the neuorotically clean workshop, a slight frown on his old face. “I think that’s enough for today, my boy, I’ll close up tonight. You head home now.”

Harry was rather happy to be sent home early. It meant he could finally indulge in the whirling thoughts he had been avoiding all day; thoughts about Malfoy, Malfoy’s wand, Malfoy’s apparent change of heart, the way Malfoy’s eyes shone silver in bright sunlight.

He settled on the sofa with a cup of tea and his teetering pile of notes on wands. Pulling out a clean sheet of parchment, he started a fresh page of notes, specifically focusing on Malfoy’s wand. Absorbed in his own thoughts, Harry barely noticed the passage of time and was startled out of his frenzied note-taking as Hermione popped out of the Floo. Abandoning more inches of parchment than he had ever bothered with for school assignments, Harry gathered her up in a hug before going to fetch drinks. 

When he arrived back in his living room, a mug of hot tea in each hand, Harry felt his face steadily heat with a rising blush. Hermione had made herself comfortable on the sofa, and was reading his copious notes on Malfoy’s wand with an intent expression. When he settled himself at the other end of the sofa, carefully placing their mugs on the coffee table amongst the mess of papers and books, he found her watching him with the same look on her face.

“So.” She broke the silence. “Malfoy, hmm?”

“Er. Yeah. Thought it was an interesting insight? Mr Ollivander kept mentioning his wand so I–” Harry shrugged, not trusting himself to keep his thoughts to himself if he carried on.

“Mhmm…” she perused the scroll of parchment she held, eyes flicking as she read quickly. “And does Ollivander agree with you on the use of ‘Hawthorn wood for protection, love, _ strong _ association with the spring equinox - new beginnings, growth’ as well as his own established suppositions about Hawthorn wielders having conflict in their nature and a skill with curses?”

“It’s not just curses– healing magic too! And in concert with unicorn hair–” Harry broke off with the realisation he was jumping to Malfoy’s defence when he wasn’t even being attacked, and refocused on Hermione’s question, not just his own preoccupation with Malfoy and his... everything. “Well. I haven’t actually spoken to Ollivander about some of my ideas about wand components yet. I reckon I’ve got to learn more before, you know, telling him I think there’s more to it than he explored. Feels a bit cheeky really.”

“Nonsense.” Hermione asserted. “I think he’ll appreciate the amount of work you’re putting in. You know he wants to hand the reins over to you eventually– no, don’t shake your head like that– we all know it!”

She put the parchment down and reached for the cup of tea Harry had brought, taking a sip before leaning into the corner of the sofa and fixing him with a bright-eyed gaze.

“And never mind all this wand business. What’s going on with you and Malfoy?” She asked.

Harry brought his own mug to his face, inhaling the sweet scent of his tea, before resigning himself to spilling his guts to Hermione. He could hardly bear to hear himself tell her all about that first meeting in Malfoy’s workshop, how Harry was so suspicious but still couldn’t help but notice how _ good _Malfoy looked. He told her how their letters had developed, about their second meeting in person, how Malfoy had taken his hand, how they had talked a bit about the war. How Malfoy had invited Harry to call him Draco.

Hermione listened patiently, quietly allowing Harry to let it all out, nodding and humming at the right moments to encourage him but never interrupting. It was new, her ability to let people work things out for themselves, to let them talk things out without her immediately leaping in with her incisive logic. But she had worked hard at it, since the war, at learning to give people space to breathe around her, and once again Harry’s heart clenched with gratitude that she was one of his best friends. He trailed off, watching her expectantly as she mulled over everything he had shared.

“Harry, be honest. Do you want something more with him? Or is this just a warmed-up remnant of that old rivalry, with a fresh spin now he’s worked on himself?” She asked, no judgement in her tone, just interest.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Harry replied. “It’s not like I want to beat him at anything. I’m not suspicious of him any more, just curious. I want to know more about him. I want to get to know him.”

“Bloody hell. You really do have a proper crush don’t you!” Hermione laughed. “First Neville with Zabini, and now you with Malfoy– who could have predicted this?” She sobered for a moment, and gently asked, “Do you think he’d be receptive?”

Harry groaned. That was the question, wasn’t it?

“I’ve no idea Hermione.” He put his face in his hands. “This feels so awkwardly like being in school and trying to ask Cho to the ball. But this is worse, because we’re adults and I should be more together than this.”

He paused, a sudden worry flashed into his mind.

“Do you think Ron will kill me fast or slow when I tell him I reckon I want to ask Malfoy out on a date?” He moaned into his palms.

Hermione put a warm hand on his shoulder, anchoring him in the moment.

“Harry, if you think Ron won’t stand by you in this, after everything we three have been through together– then you’re an idiot.” She paused, then snorted with laughter. “I mean, it’s going to be a terribly slow death by the art of taking the piss though, I think, if we’re being honest!”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh with her, leaning into her and relishing the release of tension. He’d told his friend about his feelings, just like his Mind Healer had taught him to do, and here he was - reassured that his friend’s supported him even if he _ did _ ask Malfoy out. Whether he was successful or not.

* * *

Harry and Malfoy continued to correspond via letter, their conversations ranging well beyond the scope of their professional business. Otherwise Harry continued with his normal life; meeting his friends, studying wands, and spending time with Teddy. 

It was a Sunday afternoon when he received Malfoy’s latest missive, extending an invitation for Harry to visit the estate for the third time. Teddy was excitedly trying to make his eyes match the tawny gold of Malfoy’s owl, and wondering aloud if he could grow feathers if he tried _ really _ hard, as Harry skimmed the letter. 

This time Malfoy asked if Harry would like to actually help him harvest some wood, so that he could learn how it was done beyond the instructions of an old book, as the trees has indicated some branches that were dying off and that they wanted to be rid of them. According to Malfoy the trees were rather determined that they would like their wood to become wands under Harry’s hands.

“Who’s owl is this, Uncle Harry?” Teddy asked in his piping little voice, he accent as crisp as a BBC newsreader under the aegis of Andromeda. 

“It’s–” Harry hesitated for a moment, wondering what exactly he should tell his godson. “It’s from a man called Draco Malfoy, I went to school with him and now I’ve been working with him for a little while.”

“I know who that is! He’s my cousin. Granny told me all about him and his mummy, that’s Granny’s sister– did you know that? Maybe I could meet my cousin one day, he must be nice if he’s your friend.” Teddy looked up at Harry, his eyes now perfectly matching the owl’s, and his hair looking distinctly feathery at the tips. 

Harry couldn’t help himself, reaching down and gathering Teddy up into his arms for a cuddle that made the little boy squeal and squeeze his arms tightly around Harry’s neck before breaking out into wild imitations of the huge bird’s hoot. He would leave any possible cousin meet-ups to Andromeda’s discretion. But he couldn’t help the smile on his face, knowing that Draco had turned into the sort of man that might actually deserve a chance to know Teddy, because Teddy deserved all of the family he could get.

After packing Teddy up and taking him back to Andromeda’s house, Harry wrote back to Malfoy quickly, eagerly agreeing to his suggested time and date. He was equal parts excited to finally get to work on some of the wood from Malfoy’s magic-rich estate, and to spend more time with Malfoy himself.

The night before he was due to visit Wiltshire again, Harry met Ron for their weekly pint at the Leaky Cauldron after their respective days at work in Ollivander’s and the Auror Department. Ron waited until they had found a secluded table before immediately bringing up Malfoy, Harry quickly admitting that he was due to see him again the following day.

Ron leaned across the table, a conspiratorial smile on his freckled face.

“Just make a move, mate,” he pronounced, the wisdom of the happily paired-up heavy in every syllable. “Better to know now and either move on, or go out with the bloke, rather than pining for ages and just making it weird.”

Harry scoffed as he lifted his pint, taking a swig before replying.

“Well. If he says no, it'll make it a bit weird, Ron. We’d still have to work together pretty regularly.”

“Why would he say no? You’re a bloody catch.” Ron held up a hand to forestall any possible interjection. “But– even if he does– you’re a big boy now. You just keep a stiff upper lip, say ‘no hard feelings’, and go back to doing the professional thing. Simple really.” 

“Maybe.” Harry rubbed at the growing beard on his jaw, absently wondering whether he should shave before seeing Malfoy. But even though Ginny cackled while poking at his ‘poncy designer stubble’, she did agree with Hermione that it made him look like a ‘bit of a rugged hottie, actually’. Perhaps he’d leave it. Malfoy might _ like _ his men rugged.

“Trust me, mate,” Ron asserted. “Hermione reckons I’m right too, so it’s two against one, really.”

Harry laughed, clinking his glass against Ron’s offered up to toast, and decided that he’d definitely leave the beard.

  



	5. Of Firewhisky and Flames

Harry arrived in the woodshop bang on time on Monday morning, finding Malfoy– no– Draco leaning once again in the doorway, waiting for him. This time he was wearing a sky blue shirt that made his grey eyes look almost violet. Inwardly Harry shook himself, keeping a tally of Malfoy’s shirt choices was really a step too far in the teenage-style crush department.

He was quickly distracted from his own internal scolding by Draco’s bright smile and friendly handshake. Trying desperately not to read too much into his greeting, Harry made small talk as they headed side by side up the familiar path to the woods.

Now he’d accepted the fact he was attracted to Draco, it was like Harry’s brain felt free to start wildly cataloguing everything about the man by his side that caught his attention. Draco strode next to him, smelling fresh and green, all broad shoulders and long legs. Harry hardly had eyes for the beautiful landscape around them when he had Draco walking beside him, gesturing broadly as he enthusiastically talked about the gardens.

Draco caught his eye, an open expression on his angular face as he asked, “Maybe after you’ve collected enough wood, you’d like to come and see the rose gardens? They’re looking particularly fine this morning, I think you’d like them.”

Harry momentarily struggled to form words, slightly overwhelmed by how pretty Draco looked all lit up with sunlight and smiles.

“I’d like that. I like flowers. Roses. Yes, please.” Harry could have cursed himself right there, ‘I like flowers’ – he sounded like a bloody idiot for Merlin’s sake.

Draco didn’t seem to mind Harry’s verbal inadequacy though, he just nodded and led Harry to the trees that must have indicated they were ready to let go of some of their branches.

“Let me show you the spell I use to prune the trees,” Draco’s voice had taken on a lecturing tone, but Harry didn’t actually mind; he’d learned so much already on his visits to Wiltshire that another lesson didn’t seem to be an issue. “It’s an old Herbologists charm, but it's actually in the healing class of spellwork– it’s designed only to cut dead or dying organic matter in order to preserve the health of the whole plant, or tree in this case, so they aren't afraid of the wandwork.”

Draco demonstrated the movement necessary for the spell, and Harry couldn’t help but focus on his wand. He felt a smug feeling of success realising quite how adept Draco was with this kind of healing magic, having already guessed he would have strength in this area after finding out his wand wood was hawthorn. Draco wielded his wand with refined and elegant casting that Harry tried his best to imitate when prompted.

Soon enough Draco was happy with Harry’s spellwork and led him to the first tree that he could harvest from. Although he knew that future shipments to Ollivander’s would be cut by Draco, Harry was glad for the chance to learn, and to once again feel the magic of the trees singing in his veins. As they went from tree to tree, he left little bags of woodlice as gifts for the Bowtruckles that chittered and skittered about the tallest branches as he worked on their arboreal homes.

Once he was confident that he could split his focus, Harry couldn’t help but ask Draco more about himself.

“So, how did you get to know the trees so well? I haven’t heard from any other growers that sound like they have as strong a connection with their trees as you do with yours.”

Draco looked down, “Well. After the end of the trials, and getting this... second chance, if you will, you know I decided to change the house. But while I was in the process of working on it, I still couldn’t stay in it. Not after,” he frowned, “well. I just couldn't. Not until I fixed it. So I sort of camped out here for a while, and I realised that the woods had been left to their own devices for decades, maybe longer. In between working on the house I spent time out here too. Had to cast quite a lot of healing charms on some of the trees, some of the magic used in the house before the end of the war had sort of... seeped out. It wasn’t good for living things. So once I had started that,” he shrugged modestly. “They sort of reached out to me in return, I suppose.”

Harry had stopped his work, listening intently to Draco’s story. He knew the broad strokes of Draco’s time changing his home after the war, but every new detail was building a picture of a man who had lost every vestige of his belief in what he had been taught as a child, and had endeavoured to rebuild himself as much as he had rebuilt his family home.

“Honestly, Draco, that’s pretty remarkable.” Harry smiled, with what he hoped was an encouragement, at the surprised and pleased expression on Draco’s face at the praise. “I’m not surprised though, that your wand would be good for that sort of work. Did you know? Hawthorn is good for healing spells, and unicorn hair is naturally resistant to the Dark Arts. The trees must have really appreciated your work, they’re being very generous with their wood.”

“Well,” Draco mumbled. “It seemed the right thing to do, at the time.”

“I’m glad you did. Maybe it’s a bit selfish of me,” Harry laughed. “But this wood will make beautiful wands. And– I’m glad it brought me out here as well.”

Draco’s eyes widened at the admission. “Oh. Well. I’m glad about that, too.”

Suddenly Harry didn't feel quite so anxious about asking him out, if he was reading that right.

Once Harry had carefully collected the branches from all of the trees that wanted to lighten their load, he stowed them in the magically enlarged bag he brought with him.

Job done, he and Draco wandered down towards the house on the hill, turning down a paved garden path Harry hadn’t seen before into expansive formal gardens currently overflowing with roses in full bloom. The scent of the flowers was heavy on the air and Harry took deep breaths of the rich air, stunned by the beauty of it all.

“This bit is my mother’s garden, she loves roses,” Draco explained.

Harry grinned, “Well, she’s certainly made me appreciate them. Those ones as as big as my head!”

“I’ll be sure to tell her that the great Harry Potter is a fan of the big ones.”

“I don’t know you well enough yet to know if you’re taking the piss, or if innuendo just happens to you,” Harry teased.

He watched, delighted, as a faint blush rose on Draco’s cheeks, and laughed with the silliness of it all. Thankfully Draco joined in.

“Honestly though,” Harry reassured, “do send your mum my regards. I did send her a letter after things settled, but I was a bit unavailable when she replied.”

Draco nodded. “I will. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear from you.”

Harry nodded too, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he gathered his nerve.

“Good. Er,” he took a deep breath before pushing on. “So, about not knowing you well enough yet. I’d like to change that, if you’d like.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, watching Harry closely. “You want to get to know me better. As in?”

“As in. Would you like to have a drink with me?” Harry asked.

“A drink,” Draco’s voice was clear of any intonation. “At your house?”

Draco wasn’t giving anything away, and suddenly Harry wasn’t sure how well this would go, but he was determined to get a definite answer.

“Maybe let’s wait for date two, or three, before I get you back to mine.”

“A date?”

Harry couldn’t help but smile, surprised that Draco was so shocked, he felt like he’d been entirely too obvious for the whole time he’d been there. But the blush still high on Draco’s cheeks, and the lack of immediate rejection gave him a boost of confidence.

“Yes, Draco,” he said. “A date. Do you fancy it?”

Draco stared at him for a long moment, eyebrow still raised, and a questioning look on his face. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him though, because soon enough a small smile curled one side of his mouth.

Draco nodded, that smile lingering. “Alright then, I think I’d like that.”

“Yes? Brilliant!” Harry crowed. “This Friday?”

“Friday works for me,” Draco confirmed with a nod of his head, still watching Harry intently. “It’s a date, Harry.”

* * *

By the time he closed the shop on Friday, Harry was a jangling bag of nerves, having waited anxiously all day to finish so he could go home and get ready and then finally meet Draco for their date. Before he had left Wiltshire, they had agreed to meet in a quiet little bar at the trendy end of Diurn Alley called The Flying Phoenix.

As soon as he arrived home, Harry Floo-called Ginny begging for help choosing what to wear. She rolled her eyes at his head in her fireplace before giving Luna a quick kiss and heaving herself out of her nest of cushions on their sofa.

“Get in the shower Harry, I can smell sawdust through the bloody fire,” she laughed. “I’ll come through and find something for you to wear while you clean up”

“Thanks Gin, sorry Luna, I’ll go shower now.” He promised, before popping his head back into his own living room and then legging it up the stairs.

By the time he wandered out of the bathroom, still towelling his slightly-too-long hair and wondering again if he should shave, Ginny had rifled through his whole wardrobe and already selected a suitable outfit. His favourite black jeans were laid on his bed, along with a dark green t-shirt that he was sure was a size too small.

“Those jeans make your bum look great Harry, trust me. Throw on that old leather jacket you love so much and I’m pretty sure he’ll swoon.” With her hand on her hip and an arched eyebrow, she delivered her final blow. “You owe me for this, by the way, I expect all the gory details afterwards, and for Malfoy to thank me in person at the next dinner night!”

“That’s in two weeks Gin, and don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself?” he sputtered.

“Nah,” she shrugged carelessly. “You look adorable, and also sort of menacing with the whole shaggy hair, beard, biceps, and leather jacket combo thing I’ve created. If he can resist you tonight, then it’s over before it begins.” She pointed accusingly at him. “And if you can’t woo him with all this shared interest in wood then frankly I wash my hands of you.”

Harry snorted, feeling his nerves abate in the face of the familiar teasing. “Thanks for the rousing pep talk.”

“No problem, compadre. Now, I’m off to my own date night that you so rudely interrupted. Don’t owl until the morning, I’ll be busy.” With a cackle she Apparated right out of his bedroom.

Harry patted down his pockets, his wand and Gringotts token safely in place. He caught sight of the clock and took one last check of himself in the mirror, deciding he looked as good as he was going to get, before he whisked into his own Apparition to Diurn Alley.

Harry spotted Draco waiting outside the bar, like they had agreed, and found himself momentarily taken aback as he walked towards him. He’d gotten used to seeing Draco in his outdoors clothes, looking a little messy, like he’d been working hard. Now Draco was in perfectly tailored slacks and the softest looking jumper; Harry wanted to rub his face on it, to see if it felt as fine as it looked. And he had done something to his hair, it wasn’t slicked back, it wasn’t even tucked behind Draco’s ears like it usually was; it was tousled, and utterly touchable, like it was designed to make Harry want to run his fingers through it.

Finding his words, Harry called out, “Hey, Draco! I hope you’ve not been waiting long.”

“No, just a few minutes.” Draco gestured over his shoulder at the open door to the bar. “This place looks good, I’ve not been yet, but Blaise recommended it.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, Neville did too, funny that.”

With a snort and a knowing glance at Harry, Draco turned to head in, with Harry following closely on his heel. The route was a little crowded as they got inside, a large gathering thronging around the bar, and Harry risked putting his hand on Draco’s lower back to steer him toward the free table he had spotted towards the back of the room. To his relief, Draco moved easily under his direction, and Harry swallowed at the way he could feel Draco’s body heat through the soft cashmere under his palm.

They sat and ordered drinks from the menu, both remarking how it was like a grown-up Hogwarts table when their glasses appeared magically, moments later. As they sipped their drinks, they both laughed over Neville and Blaise’s recommendations for the bar– realising they clearly weren’t the first of their friends to use this place as a first date destination.

The last of Harry’s nerves flew out of the window as they settled into conversation, and he was pleased to find out that they didn’t just have a passion for magical trees and wands in common. They quickly abandoned talk about their work, and moved on to chatting about their friends. Draco mentioned spending time with Luna, which didn't even surprise Harry, Luna being the free-minded person she was; apparently she had written to Draco after the war and they had carried on a continuous correspondence since.

Harry laughed at Draco’s sharply observant anecdotes about Pansy and Blaise, and shared his own stories of drunken nights out, of the regular shenanigans of his friends. Draco too-casually enquired how long it had been since Ginny and Luna had been together, and Harry bit back his fierce relief that– yes– Draco really was interested in him romantically.

After confirmation that he really had been single for more than a year, he noticed the way Draco relaxed, became more free with his touches. Draco moved his long legs under the table, and left them tangled with Harry’s; he touched Harry’s arm to emphasise a point. Harry really did feel like a teenager all over again, avidly cataloguing each touch to agonise over later, relishing the rush of anticipation that shivered up his spine at the heat of Draco’s leg against his own.

Harry talked a little about what it was like to work with Ollivander, about his friends, their dinner nights, what it was like to move into Grimmauld Place. How he had completed the basic renovation he had needed to move in and live there happily, but that he dreamt of more large-scale changes that he just hadn’t had the time to pursue yet.

“I can help with the structural magic, if you like.” Draco offered. “After the Manor I sometimes feel like it would be fun to work on another property.”

“That would be brilliant, though fair warning–” Harry laughed, looking at Draco over his glasses. “Hermione will want to quiz you on every aspect of the magic you did on your house, she was going a mile-a-minute when I mentioned it a few weeks ago.”

Draco cocked his head, an inquisitive look on his face. “Nice to know I made the news with your friends, Harry.” He teased. “And I think I could manage an interrogation from Granger, if it’s on your behalf.”

Harry felt the heat of his blush, his cheeks burning. “Well, you’re the most interesting thing to happen to me recently, had to let them know, didn’t I?”

Before they knew it, it was after midnight, and the bar was slowly emptying around them; people heading out to rowdier clubs or back home. While Draco popped to the toilet, Harry used his Gringotts token out to pay the tab. A hand on his shoulder startled him, but his surprise was quickly replaced with a hot thrill; it was Draco, leaning down to murmur in his ear, his breath warm and his voice deep.

“Sneaky, Harry. Next time, it’s my treat.”

Harry whipped around, unable to hide his pleasure, and unwilling to care, as he looked at Draco over his shoulder. “So, you want there to be a next time?” he asked.

Draco’s eyes glittered as they roved over Harry’s face, so close Harry could smell the sweet elf-wine on his breath.

“Definitely, Harry.” A smile curled at his mouth.

Harry stood and pulled on his leather jacket, not missing the way Draco’s gaze darted down to his shoulders, his waist, before he turned and led the way out of the bar into the lamplit cobbles of Diurn Alley. They walked companionably toward the Apparition point, their shoulders bumping together, their hands brushing slightly as they moved. Harry had goosebumps up his arms that had nothing to do with the cool evening air.

All too soon, they reached the point where they would go their separate ways. Draco leaned in to drop a simple kiss on Harry’s cheek, before standing back, his hands in his pockets.

“This was actually lovely, Harry,” he murmured. “I’m glad you asked, I was looking forward to the next time you would come by the house, I had even thought I might ask you to dinner myself. Of course you’d be the braver of the two of us, and just go for it.”

Harry laughed, delighted that Draco had been feeling the same way, delighted he’d been first– maybe his competitive streak with Draco wasn’t completely dead, maybe he had just found a more creative way to express it.

“I’m glad too, visiting the trees with you is brilliant, but getting to spend some time with you off the clock is much better.” Harry gestured to the dark night around them. “I’m still a bit surprised we lost track of time like that, though.”

Draco cocked his head, “I’m not,” he disagreed. “I always wanted to get to know you, ever since I was eleven and realised you’d be in my year at Hogwarts. Despite everything that’s happened since then, maybe especially because of it, I’m happy to get the chance now.”

Once again Harry found himself surprised at Draco’s candour, at the streak of humility that had been shot through him by war, and fear, and time. He couldn’t forget the way Draco had behaved before, but with every conversation, every observation he’d made as he got to know the man before him, Harry couldn’t help but feel like Draco really had turned his face towards the sun and moved in a new direction with his life.

He realised he didn’t want to watch Draco disappear back home, he didn’t know what he did want, other than a little more time, a little more getting to know each other, a little more of those tantalising touches.

“Look,” he asked. “I know this might be a bit forward, but, I don’t really want this night to end here, and neither of us have work tomorrow– do we?”

Draco hesitated for a moment, and Harry waited with his heart in his mouth. It was only the span of a breath or two but it felt like an eternity.

“Alright,” Draco finally agreed. “Can’t say I fancy heading home yet myself– seems you’re as good company when it’s just us as when you’re gazing adoringly at my trees.”

Harry couldn’t resist an opening like that, and grasped the chance to live up to Ginny’s expectations. “Well, you’re much more interesting to look at than your trees, Draco.”

“You smooth-talking bastard,” Draco laughed, a faint blush high on his cheekbones betraying him.

Harry held his arm out, “Grab on, I’ll Apparate us through the wards together.”

Elation soared through him when Draco easily moved close, wrapping the elegant fingers of one hand firmly around Harry’s bicep, leaning bodily into him and maintaining hot eye contact as Harry waved his wand and swept them into his living room.

They stood together for a moment after they arrived, a tableau of mutual anticipation in the middle of his house. Draco let go of his arm with one last squeeze to the muscle there, and even through his leather jacket, Harry’s arm felt tingly. He watched as Draco looked around the room, feeling strangely self-conscious, wondering what inner secrets his decor might be giving away.

Draco turned to him from his inspection of the view from the huge bay windows, a wry smile on his face.

“I remember this view, we used to visit when I was little.” His grin turned into a smirk, all mischief and no malice. “How long did it take to get rid of that damned pixie infestation? Mother used to cringe every time the curtains moved.”

They both laughed, and Harry shook his head ruefully as he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it onto an armchair.

“Honestly, Draco,” he groaned, “You wouldn’t believe the trouble that gave me. I’d rather take on a dragon than deal with those little bastards again.”

Draco was walking around the room, peering at the books on Harry’s shelves. He raised an eyebrow at the bulging folder of notes Harry had rammed into the writing bureau in the corner and Harry fervently wished he’d shut the lid – what if Draco saw all of the mad notes he’d made about his bloody wand?

In hopes of distracting him, Harry decided to ask, “Do you want a cup of tea, or anything?”

“Tea?” Draco asked, a challenging note in his voice as he shot Harry an arch look over his shoulder from his investigation of the photographs waving on Harry’s mantelpiece. “Come on, Harry, it’s a Friday night; our first official date. Make it something stronger.”

It seemed that Draco had gotten over whatever misgivings he’d had about coming home with Harry and moved straight into full-on commitment to the change of plans. Harry swallowed hard around the rush of exhilaration roaring in his chest at the idea of getting tipsy around Draco, at the idea of blood warmed with alcohol, at the idea of lowered inhibitions, and Draco right here in his house.

“Alright.” Another swallow. “Ogden's okay with you?”

Draco hummed approvingly from behind him, so Harry poured them a couple of fingers each into crystal tumblers he had found in Sirius’ old room when he first moved back in. Harry turned away from the drinks table to find Draco finished with his inspection of Harry’s living room. He had dropped into the middle of the sofa, toeing off his boots before curling up, reaching out to take the offered glass from Harry.

Harry sank into his own favourite corner of the sofa, angling himself sideways to mirror Draco’s position; pleased that Draco hadn’t chosen to sit in the opposite corner, that there was barely inches between them. The evening had turned cool so he absently shot a wandless spell to light the fire in the hearth, surprised but quietly smug at the impressed look on Draco’s face.

Draco held out his glass towards Harry, raised in toast. “Cheers– here’s to second chances.” His smile turned puckish. “And to your official new title, Harry Potter - Vanquisher of Pixies.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but raised his glass to clink with Draco’s before taking his first sip of Firewhisky. As always, the shot of heat on his tongue made his eyes water, but as it settled in his belly he relaxed further into the sofa, propping his head up on his hand as he leaned against the backrest. He was right to have been filled with excitement at the notion of having something a little stronger than tea with Draco; combined with the beers he’d drank at the bar, and the fire cracking in the grate, the Ogden's set up a luxurious warmth in his body. He might have invited Draco back with the honest, and innocent, desire to continue their animated and free-flowing conversation, but now he was here, Harry felt quite happy to just sit and watch him.

Ever since that first visit to Wiltshire, he had noticed the way Draco looked, the way he acted, the way he moved. But for some reason seeing him here in this new context, in Harry’s own home, heightened every aspect of Harry’s appreciation.

Relaxed into the soft upholstery of the sofa, Harry could hardly believe how soft and inviting Draco looked. Harry found himself slightly taken aback by how disarming the sight of Draco in his socks was. Draco’s hair was again slightly wavy, curling over his forehead and around his ears after being out in the damp evening air. The sculpted planes of his face were set into sharp relief in the shifting glow of the fire, and the soft light of lamps around the room. His grey eyes glinted when Harry found himself caught staring.

Draco leaned his head on his hand, copying Harry, the long line of his neck exposed and elegant. He raised an eyebrow, “A question for you - you joked in the rose garden about waiting for date number two, or three, some nonsense. Was that for my benefit or do you actually subscribe to those sort of arbitrary rules when it comes to dating?”

“Er,” Harry faltered, and took a sip of his drink. “Well yes, it was sort of because I didn’t want to– I don’t know– spook you? I only know about those date rules from a Muggle film I watched with Hermione actually,” he admitted with a laugh.

Draco laughed too, and laid his arm out across the backrest of the sofa, his fingertips brushing gently against the inside of Harry’s elbow. Harry felt like every nerve in his body was primed for the moment Draco’s fingers might twitch, suddenly aware of how close they were together on the sofa, how all he had to do was move his knee an inch and they would be touching there too.

“I think the teen romance novels Pansy used to read must have something in common with your Muggle film then, I remember learning about the ‘three date rule’ from them myself.” Draco said. “I did think it would be rather out of character for you to have suddenly started abiding by that sort of social bureaucracy, it’s not exactly what you’re known for is it?”

“Fair point,” Harry admitted with a nod of his head and a grin.

“But I feel like we might have had a small misunderstanding— if you’ve been under the impression you need to avoid scaring me off, that is.” Draco fixed Harry with a hot look. “It did take me by surprise when you asked me to drinks, but only because I had thought it would take us longer to dance around the subject before you went for it.” He paused, gently stroking the sensitive skin of Harry’s arm before continuing. “I knew what I wanted; I just didn’t think you did too, yet.”

“It felt like I was being pretty obvious on my visits.”

“Well, don’t forget I was busy being shocked at myself for hardly being able to get my words out when you kept falling out of the Floo looking like some kind of tall, dark, and handsome character out of a romance novel.” Draco scoffed, shifting on the sofa until– yes– they were touching, knee to knee.

Harry felt this new point of contact like a brand; he waited a moment, but Draco didn’t move away. It was intentional. Emboldened by Draco’s words and his touch, Harry reached out and rested his hand on Draco’s leg. Draco’s gaze flickered down to Harry’s fingers wrapped gently around his calf, then back up to his face.

“Funny, I know exactly what you mean.” Harry said. “But I stand corrected; you’re no damsel in distress.”

Draco scoffed. “Hardly. Just cautious. Me being me, and you being, well, you. I didn't want to presume and then end up putting you on the back foot.”

Despite the easy tone of their conversation, Harry couldn’t help but pick up on the wistful tone in Draco’s voice. He was right, of course, Harry didn’t have to worry so much about how Draco might have received his advances. The worst that could happen was he got turned down, but with Draco’s past Harry could have made life very difficult for him if he had rejected unwanted flirtation. But that hadn’t happened, and tonight was for enjoying this new dynamic they had discovered between them, not addressing old aches.

“Not feeling cautious now then?” he squeezed Draco’s leg gently.

Draco leaned forward, bringing their faces even closer together. Harry held his breath. Was this the moment?

“No” Draco murmured, “And I’m feeling more and more confident by the moment.”

Harry couldn’t help but sway toward him. This close he could smell the spicy warmth of Draco’s aftershave, could see the flush as it blossomed high on his cheekbones. He hadn’t planned for this. But Draco’s forthright approach had woken a hunger for more, that familiar instinct to rise to any challenge he laid down. Everything he had learned about Draco since first setting foot through the Floo into his workshop, every shared story, every lingering touch since that first handshake, had all led him to this point. Harry didn’t want to wait.

Apparently, neither did Draco, if his darting glances between Harry’s eyes and mouth were anything to go by. In this moment of the almost, every nerve-ending in Harry’s body was singing out for the relief of touch. But he waited, holding back from that final lean forward. He wanted Draco to be the one to step over that line.

“In fact,” Draco continued, “I have an idea to wipe out any possible nervousness for our next date as well. Want to hear it?”

Harry grinned. “I’m glad to have confirmation there will be another.” He ignored Draco’s indignant snort and swat to his shoulder. “But yeah, go on, tell me your cunning plan.”

“Well,” Draco said, shaking his hair out of his eye. “I think we should kiss now, so as not to worry about whether we ought to or not when I take you out for dinner tomorrow.”

“That really is a good idea,” Harry murmured, acutely aware of the rough edge to his own voice, unable to keep his eyes from dropping to Draco’s mouth.

Draco raised his free hand and cupped Harry’s jaw, his thumb stroking across the beard there, before he leaned forward and finally closed the gap between them. The first touch of their lips was gentle, a simple kiss that still managed to prompt a rush of heat in Harry’s body. When Draco tilted his head and moved in again, this time with parted lips that clung to Harry’s as they brushed together, that heat settled low in Harry's belly.

Just as he was settling into the slow pace, Draco drew back, nudging Harry’s nose with his own. He gently slid Harry’s glasses from his face, folded them, and put them on the side table, before simply looking down at him. Harry held his breath, momentarily overwhelmed at the gesture, and the way his own thrumming desire only blossomed in response.

“Come here,” he whispered, before running his hand up Draco’s thigh to his hip and urging him forward, towards his own lap. Suddenly, the tiny distance between them was simply too much. He needed to feel Draco’s weight, his warmth; he wanted to taste more of that sweetness.

Draco obliged, moving forward and draping his long legs around Harry, settling onto him easily. Harry gave in to the urge he’d been resisting for weeks, and raised a hand to Draco’s hair, delighted to find it as soft and silken around his fingers as he had imagined. The soft sigh and lean into his hand this prompted from Draco was equally pleasing. Harry used his handhold to direct Draco’s face down to his own, tilting his head up to catch Draco’s lips once more.

He wrapped his other arm around Draco’s waist, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh of his hip, prompting a gasp against his mouth which he eagerly took advantage of. The first brush of his tongue against Draco’s tasted like Firewhisky and the elfwine he had been drinking at the bar, heat and sweetness in equal measure. With the distant part of his brain that was still functioning, Harry thought he could savour that pretty much indefinitely.

Draco seemed inclined to agree, if the way he groaned and pressed his chest forward against Harry’s was anything to go by. Harry sneaked his fingers under the fine knit of his jumper. It was even softer than it looked, but the skin at the base of Draco’s back was softer still. He set up a gentle stroke there, in time with the rhythm of their tongues slick movements against each other, delighted with the shiver it sent through Draco.

But then the bastard broke the kiss, drawing back to look down at Harry again, his mouth now pink and moist from Harry’s own tongue. He licked his lips, grinning at the way it made Harry grip at him in response.

“Not bad, as far as first kisses go,” he said, an assessing tone to his voice. “Want to leave it there and come back to it tomorrow?”

Harry took the chance to stretch his legs out under Draco, settling him more firmly in his lap.

“Never imagined you to be one for delayed gratification, Draco.” Harry arched a brow. “And frankly, neither am I.”

Draco grinned, sharp and bright, and so handsome it took Harry’s breath away.

“You do seem to be more of a go-getter these days. I like it,” Draco replied.

Tired of the teasing, Harry grabbed at Draco’s hips, tilting them until their cloth-covered erections came into full contact.

“If you think for one minute I’m letting you go right now, then you’ve got another thing coming,” Harry hissed, tilting his chin up. “Get down here and kiss me.”

Draco took another moment to look his fill, his gaze like a physical touch as he perused the sight of Harry sprawled against the sofa, his t-shirt rucked up and his hair no doubt messier than ever. Then he was leaning down, and once again their mouths met, hot, and wet, and lush with intensity. Harry let him dictate the pace of the kiss, welcoming the rush of hot arousal that licked up his spine as Draco sucked on his tongue. Draco slid those elegant fingers into his hair, finely manicured nails dragging against the sensitive skin of his scalp, and Harry involuntarily bucked his hips in response, a fierce heat in his belly at the resulting moan from Draco as their cocks ground together.

Desperate now, riled up by Draco’s teasing, his plush mouth, Harry wrapped his arms around him; pulling their hips tightly together, sliding one hand up under his jumper to grasp possessively at the back of his neck. Like this, he was free to start a purposeful grind upwards, rocking them together as their kiss devolved into messy panting and heavy moans.

Draco’s hands in his hair tightened, tilting his head back, and then that perfect mouth was on his jaw, his neck, leaving sucking kisses and throbbing bites in his path as he nuzzled against the thundering pulse in Harry’s throat. A ragged groan broke out of Harry as Draco unerringly found every single sweet spot he had, his grip in dark, tangled curls the perfect, tingling counterpoint to the way he was ravishing Harry's neck.

Harry’s hands roamed under Draco’s top, seeking more of that softness, learning the play of lean muscles as they moved together, dipping below the waistband of his slacks, toying with the sensitive skin there. Draco’s thighs tightened against his hips, and Harry bent his own legs at the knee, planted his feet into the sofa for leverage, and grabbed at Draco’s plush arse; all the better to thrust against him, their pace rising to fever pitch.

Draco muffled a deep groan into Harry’s neck before dragging their faces back together and dipping his tongue back between his lips. He kissed Harry like he was starving for it, like every slick slide of their tongues, every breath passing from Harry's lips to his, was a feast. Harry had had enough lovers to know he loved kissing, but he’d never had someone bestow quite this level of passionate attention to it. This wasn’t kissing as a lead-up to the ‘good stuff’, this was kissing as the main event.

Harry moaned as Draco sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, and simultaneously rolled his hips down to meet Harry’s upward thrust. “Fuck, Draco, I–” Harry broke off, another low sound dragged from him as Draco writhed in his lap.

Draco didn’t even stop kissing him, just hummed an enquiry against his lips.

For a moment, Harry contemplated everything he wanted to do with Draco in this instant. He wanted to peel that cashmere from his body, exploring the satiny skin there with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to pop the button of Draco’s smartly tailored trousers and strip away every bit of fabric between them, until there was nothing but skin on skin, slick sweat, and heat. He wanted to see how far the flush rising up Draco’s pale neck extended, down his chest? Further still? Was his cock ruddy with that same rush of blood?

But for all the rising pace of their movements, he didn’t feel the need to rush. He could wait to unfold every physical aspect of this new dynamic with Draco. He could wait to feel that hot mouth slip below his collar, he could wait to taste every dip and hollow. He could wait.

Right now, this moment, was perfect. The sticky heat of too many clothes between them, the restrictive friction of his jeans, the press of Draco’s hard cock against his zipper, the thrill of rutting frantically, neither of them able to tear themselves apart long enough to even pop the buttons on their trousers. This was exactly what he wanted. He hadn’t come in his pants since he was a teenager but he was flying helter-skelter towards doing just that. Trust Draco Malfoy to push him higher and faster than any of his last partners, trust him to know exactly which buttons to press.

“Just–mmmm–yes–” he growled as Draco twisted just right against him, the drag against his cock exquisite torture in the confines of his jeans. He clung even harder to Draco's lithe body, glorying in the way Draco’s breath caught in his throat at the press of them together, every point in full, delicious, contact.

He could feel a tremble start up in Draco’s thighs, and the hot clench in his own belly tightened further, their movements started losing rhythm, falling into a rough, uncoordinated rut. Harry couldn’t have strung two words together if he tried, so he focused instead on the spine-tingling catch of Draco’s barely-there stubble against his beard, the luxurious slide of their tongues, the satisfaction of meeting an equal strength in broad shoulders and firm thighs.

Draco was moaning continuously now, a carnal stream of consciousness that shot straight to the core of Harry’s brain and turned off every element of higher function. All he wanted now was to chase those moans, catch them on his tongue, savour them like the Firewhisky he had sipped what felt like years ago now.

He rolled his hips, digging his fingertips into the flesh of Draco’s arse as the rising wave of arousal reached its peak between them. Draco was the first to fall into the depths, gasping and shaking against Harry, his hips mindlessly twitching as he rode out his orgasm. As he shuddered through the aftershocks, he didn’t stop moving, but trailed hot, messy kisses down to Harry’s throat; shoved one hand between them and gave Harry the perfect pressure to lose himself against. With a final thrust, he ground out his own orgasm, every muscle in his body locking tight before unwinding into trembling bliss, his nerves lighting up in glittering, sparkling, pleasure.

Draco’s sucking kisses at his neck gentled, turned from hungry to kittenish, and he softened his own grip at Draco’s waist, smoothing his hands up his back to hold him close in the glowing afterburn of this first consummation. He turned his face, burying his nose into fine blonde hair, and inhaled the scent of apples and spicy, masculine sweat.

He felt more than heard Draco’s murmured, “That was–”

“Mmmmm,” he replied.

Another nuzzle at his jawline, “I mean–”

“Mmmmm,” he hummed, again.

Draco’s head shot up, the quirk of a smile at his mouth. His shifting threatened to disrupt the full-body contact Harry was basking in, so he tightened his arms with a frown. Draco laughed, planting his palms on Harry’s chest but making no move to remove himself from his lap.

“You’re rather pliant in the afterglow aren’t you?” Draco teased.

“‘S’why it’s called an afterglow isn’t it,” Harry murmured, voice still low. “You glow. After.”

The look Draco shot him could only be described as fond, even with the arched eyebrow and satisfied smirk, and suddenly Harry didn't want this to be the end of their night either. Oh, he could wait for sex and all of the fun of taking each other’s clothes off, but he just didn’t want to let go of Draco. Didn’t want to lose the scent of his shampoo, the warmth of his body, the wit and surprise of his mind.

“You should stay over,” he said. Instead of admitting all that, just yet.

“I should?” If Draco arched his eyebrow any further, he’d lose it in his hairline.

“Yeah, definitely. I’ve got some green pyjamas.” Harry wasn’t above a little bribery and corruption, if the goal was worth it.

Draco sniffed, looking down at him with eyes glowing in the reflected light of the embers now crumbling in the hearth. “I prefer blue, actually.”

Harry looked down at Draco’s jumper deliberately. “I like blue, too. I’ll change them for you.” He waved his hand, casting a gentle wandless Scourgify on them both to get rid of the rapidly cooling come in their underwear. “So?” He prompted, too hopeful to be transparent.

Draco’s thumbs stroked along his collarbone where they lay on his chest as he looked at him searchingly. Harry didn’t know what his face was doing, but he hoped it was convincing, as he waited.

“Blue pyjamas,” Draco nodded, clearly having found what he was looking for in Harry’s eyes. “I’ll stay.”

Harry couldn’t help what he knew was a satisfied smile spreading across his face, and he didn’t try, because he could see it mirrored in Draco’s face above him.

“Good, that’s–” he sighed, content. “That’s good.”

“Yes, quite. But I’ll be going home after breakfast. Otherwise you’ll have me here all day and when I take you to dinner it will still be the first date, which just won’t do.” Draco leaned down, dropped another soft kiss on his lips.

Harry tilted his head to linger in the contact, humming in agreement. “Yeah, we should squeeze three in at least before I bring you to dinner with the gang. I’ve already promised Ginny and Ron.”

Draco drew back, a slight frown on his face, lips plump. “Everyone?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “Everyone.”

They all knew already, had all given him their seal of approval in their own way, and Harry actually thought it would work. Draco had carefully tended himself into a man that Harry was excited to introduce to his loved ones. He was excited to see Hermione interrogate his work on the manor, to see Ginny and Luna quiz him on Quidditch and Bowtruckles and Nargles. He was even excited to see Ron tease them, to put Draco through his paces. He was excited to find out if Draco would cook for them all, one day.

That didn’t mean Draco felt the same way though, and a quiver of uncertainty rippled through him. He watched Draco’s face carefully, looking for evidence of his thoughts as he clearly sifted through the implications of Harry’s invitation. His normally expressive face was impassive, though his fingers didn’t stop their stroking against Harry’s chest.

Finally, “Dinner with everyone.” A nod.

Harry’s heart pounded in relief. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

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**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Classics Cover: Pathless Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25319020) by [zeziliazink_art (zeziliazink)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeziliazink/pseuds/zeziliazink_art)


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